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Ho.>n5. 

Confession of 

Lorraine 



Herschel 



BY 

B^NTOLiVnK 


The Pastime Series— AVcokly. $13.00 per annum. No. 33. March 31, 180(». 
Entered at Chicago Postoftice as second-class matter. 


Chicago: LAIRD & LEE, Publishers 263 Wabash Ave. 






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THE CONEESSION 

or 

Lorraine Herschel 


A STORY or AVYSTERY 


BY 

DR. N. T. OLIVER \ 

AUTHOR OF 

“An Unconscious Crime,” Etc. 



LAIRD & LEE, PUBLISHERS 



Entered according to Act of Congress in the year eighteen 
hundred and ninety- six, by '' 

WILLIAM H. LEE, 

In the ofBce of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. 

(ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.) 









CHAPTER 1. 

ROOM 47, BROWN’S HOTEL. 

“Mr. Seabrooke.” 

The name uttered in a low, frightened tone, almost in- 
articulate. 

The man addressed, day clerk and manager of Brown’s 
Hotel, Baltimore, failed to hear the call. With three oth- 
ers he was deeply immersed in the soul-absorbing mys- 
teries of dominoes. 

“Please, Mr. Seabrooke.” 

A backward jerk of the head, a glance over the left 
shoulder, conveyed the fact that the faint cry had reached 
his ears. 

“Well — what do you want?” Not in any pleasant tone; 
he was busy, and did not relish the idea of being inter- 
rupted. 

“I would like to speak to you one moment, sir.” 

“Well — sail in and speak! Don’t be all day about it. 
Pm busy !” 

The girl who had interrupted the busy (?) clerk flushed 
slightly. She was Rachel Adler, chambermaid for the 
third floor of the hotel, the floor where the regular board- 
ers had their rooms. A slight, pale creature, possibly not 
over the age of eighteen, perhaps not that old; to all 


10 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


appearances not overly strong. Not a girl one would 
have selected for arduous labor. A pretty girl (if the term 
is admissible), if it were not for the thin, delicate form, the 
wan, pale face, the frightened eyes. The face, though pale 
and haggard for one of her years, was intelligent, and to 
all appearances — ^judging from the first impression — one 
would have said that she had known better days; had not 
always been a hard-worked servant in a third-class hotel. 

She spoke again, her voice trembling: “I would not in- 
terrupt you, sir, if I did not think it necessary, and’ —here 
she hesitated — ‘T would rather speak to you privately.” 

With a half muttered exclamation of annoyance, the 
clerk pushed back his chair from the table, and, arising, 
made three strides toward the stairway, upon which the 
girl stood, leaning upon her broom with one hand, hold- 
ing a dustpan in the other. 

Growling at each step, Mr. Seabrooke slowly climbed 
the stairs. 

“Well, what is this private matter you want to speak to 
me about?” he muttered, standing on the step below her. 

‘T can’t get in room 47,” she said, a frightened look in 
her gray eyes. 

“Is that all?” he cried, angrily; “your pass key will open 
the door. You don’t have to bother me about it. I ain’t 
got nothin’ to do with the rooms except to put people in 
’em.” 

“I have tried my pass key, Mr. Seabrooke, and I can’t 
get it in the keyhole. The door is locked from the inside.” 

“Knock on it, then! The people must be asleep, and 
they’ll get no breakfast this mornin’, either. It’s nearly 
ten o’clock,” leaning over the baluster and consulting the 
clock in the office. 

“That is what frightened me, sir,” replied the girl. “The 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE IIERSCIIEL. 


11 


gentlemen usually get up early. I have never found them 
in the room when I came to make it up. They take a walk 
together early in the morning. I have seen them several 
times.” 

“The best people oversleep themselves sometimes,” said 
the clerk. “Knock on the door,” he suggested again. 

“I have rapped, sir, twice; no one answered me.” 

“Did you knock hard?” 

“Very hard, sir.” 

“Humph! You ain’t got strength enough in your 
whole body to knock hard enough to wake anybody,” he 
said, contemptuously. 

The pale face flushed. 

“I am not strong, Mr. Seabrooke, scarcely strong 
enough to perform my duties. I rapped loud enough to 
be heard by anyone. You are unkind to insult me.” 

Tears stood in the gray eyes. The man looked disgust- 
ed. “Bah !” he muttered, “you git insulted mighty quick. 
You’re too good — too tender-hearted to be a chamber- 
maid.” 

The girl made no reply. With the corner of her apron 
she wiped away the gathering tears, leaning the broom 
against the baluster to enable her to use one hand. 

“Well — is that all?” finally demanded Seabrooke, anx- 
ious to return to his game. 

“Won’t you please come up stairs with me and see if you 
cannot arouse the gentlemen?” anxiously murmured the 
girl. 

“I don’t see any use of it,” impatiently responded the 
man; then adding: “Go hammer on the door. Holler 
‘Fire! Murder!’ or anything you like; or let ’em sleep, if 
they want to. You can make up the room after dinner,” 
and with this he started down the stairs. With a quick 


12 * CONFESSIOI^ OF LORKAINE HERSCHEL. 

movement the girl followed him, and, reaching his side, 
placed one thin hand on his shoulder, as if to stop him. 

“Mr. Seabrooke, I wish you would come up stairs with 
me, sir. Everything is so quiet in that room. I am afraid 
something is wrong. The gas is still burning, and at full 
head. You know that is unusual, sir.” 

The tone, appealing, fearful, beseeching, caused the 
angry clerk to stop and hesitate; then, muttering a low 
curse, he turned and ascended the stairs; reaching the 
landing, he said, in a harsh tone: 

“As you seem to be so much afraid, Pll go up. But if 1 
find them men only asleep, and you not able to wake ’em — 
by gosh. I’ll do my level best to have you fired.” Then, 
as if a sudden thought had entered his mind, he added, 
“and if they have gone to sleep and left the gas burning 
all night. I’ll make ’em pay extra for it.” With this truly 
characteristic speech, the gentlemanly (?) clerk of Brown’s 
Hotel started to climb the second flight, followed by the 
silent and trembling girl. 

Along the il-lighted hall to the very last room shuffled 
Seabrooke, stopping at last before a door upon whose 
dirty white panels was painted the number 47. 

“Give me your pass key,” he growled. 

Silently the girl obeyed. 

Stooping, the man endeavored to insert the key, useless ; 
it was as the girl had said, the door was locked from the in- 
side, and it was impossible to insert the key into the lock. 

The clerk, after several ineffectual trials, straightened 
his stooping body. As he did so, his eye caught the gleam 
of the gas burning within the room. It could be plainly 
seen through the glass transom over the door. 

“You’re right; the gas is burning at full head,” he mut- 
tered. “I’ll give ’em a knock.” 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


13 


Bang! His clenched fist struck the panels. 

Bang! bang!! he continued to pound. 

No reply came from within the closed room. 

“I’ll try my foot!” he cried savagely. 

But the severe blows administered by the angry man 
failed to produce any effect, except to bring the loungers 
from the office below hurrying up the stairs. 

Resting from his labors, Seabrooke stared at the door. 
For the first time he began to feel alarmed. A vague sen- 
sation of undelfinable awe took possession of his mind. 
Surely no live man could sleep through such a racket. 

“What’s the matter?” whispered one of the bystanders, 
a lady whose room was on the same floor, and who had 
been startled by the sound of the clerk’s blows. 

No one replied. No one could very well answer. They 
were all equally mystified. 

“I’ll bust it in,” muttered Seabrooke, at last. “Bring me 
an axe,” turning to the porter, who stood open-mouthed 
as his elbow. 

That individual (a negro) hurried away to obey his su- 
perior. In a short time he returned with the required ar- 
ticle. 

“I hate to do this,” muttered the clerk, taking the axe, 
“but durned if I ain’t worried. So here goes.” 

Bang! bang! sounded the implement upon the door. 
Crash ! The panel gave way. A flood of light burst out 
into the dark hall, lighting up the faces of the expectant 
ones without. 

Inserting his arm through the jagged hole, Seabrooke 
turned the key, opened the door, and entered the room. 

It appeared deserted. The beds, two in number, had 
not been slept in, a small table/ immediately beneath the 
gas jet was littered with writing materials. A chair stood 


14 CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 




CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSUHEL. 


16 


near. Mechanically Seabrooke turned off the gas, mutter- 
ing: 

'‘Mighty strange, not a blessed soul here; where on earth 
kin they have gone?” 

The curious crowd had by this time followed the clerk, 
and joined him in staring about the walls, as if in search of 
an explanation for the strange circumstance. Finally re- 
covering himself, the manager of the institution began an 
investigation of the apartment. A few strides brought 
him to the bed, the foot-board of which faced the table; a 
step farther, and then, with a cry of horror, he fell back — 
fairly into the arms of one of the crowd who had followed 
him — gasping in broken, hoarse tones, the words: 

“Murder! Foul murder! What a horrible affair!” 


16 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


CHAPTER 11. 

A POLICE INVESTIGATION. 

“Murder.” 

The word passed from mouth to mouth, while the pale 
faces of those who stood as if spellbound, gave evidence 
of the effect of the clerk^s horrified cry. 

A scream rang out upon the deathly stillness of the 
close room. It aroused the bystanders from their inac- 
tivity; they became men and women in that one brief in- 
stant. 

The scream emanated from the chambermaid. She was 
found lying an inert mass upon the floor. 

She had fainted. 

Women faint so easily! 

But then — she was but a poor, weak creature. 

Seabrooke stood grasping the foot-board of the cheap 
bedstead as if for support ; his eyes still fixed upon — some- 
thing lying between the two beds. The other bedstead 
prevented the crowd from seeing the object that the clerk 
stood staring at with eyes that seemed to start from their 
sockets, but as the chambermaid^s cry aroused them to 
activity, they surged forward; an eager, curious, but still 
frightened crowd, to catch a glimpse of the hidden object. 
A groan of sickening horror, a cry of pity, went up from 
the curious ones as their gaze fell upon that which they 
wished to see, and which, now that they had feasted their 
curious eyes upon it, gratified that unnatural desire which 


CONFESSIOIS’ OF LOKKAINE iBERSCHEL. 


17 


dwells in the human breast to behold any uncouth or hor- 
rible thing, they turned from it. A sickening feeling of 
awe at heart, an overwhelming sensation of pity for the 
helpless, lifeless thing, that could not now be benefited nor 
bettered by the feeling. 

Stretched at full length upon the floor, one-half the 
body still hidden by the bedstead, the head and breast 
alone visible — lay a man ; a look of agony upon the clear- 
cut and noble face; a flowing beard, half concealing a 
ghastly wound in the throat, from which the blood still 
trickled. 

The curling locks of dark-brown hair were matted and 
stuck together with the blood which, but a few hours be- 
fore, had coursed vigorously through the body of as per- 
fect a specimen of physical manhood as the world ever 
saw. 

One white, once strong hand, now helpless and weak in 
death, was pressed to the high forehead, concealing the 
eyes; but not hiding the look of agony which the com- 
pressed lips and drawn features clearly revealed. The car- 
pet immediately under the head of the dead man was one 
mass of blood ! A dark pool that caused the onlookers to 
draw back and shudder as they beheld it; that almost 
turned their life current to ice as they gazed. 

“What shall we do?’^ at last whispered one of the by- 
standers. 

The words seemed to have a reviving effect upon the 
man Seabrooke. Turning from the ghastly sight, he slow- 
ly drew his hand across his eyes, as if to wipe from them 
the vision of that which they had beheld. 

Then, wetting his dry lips with the tip of his tongue, he 
said, in a dazed, dreamy way: “Yes, something must be 
done.” 


18 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


His eyes roving about the apartment fell upon the un- 
conscious form of the chambermaid. She was slowly be- 
ing restored to consciousness by the lady from the adja- 
cent room and one of the men. 

“What ails her?” he asked, slowly. 

“She fainted,” replied one of the men. 

“Fainted, eh? Too weak for a chambermaid,” he me- 
chanically muttered. “Yes, something must be done,” he 
added, sharply, as if suddenly impressed with that fact. 

“The police should be notified,” volunteered a guest of 
the house, by way of a suggestion. 

“Yes, and a doctor,” cried another. 

“A doctor is unnecessary,” solemnly said a black-cloth- 
ed gentleman. “That poor creature needs not the services 
of a physician. The police, however, should be summon- 
ed. I am a minister of the Gospel. Has this man any 
friends or relatives who should be informed of his de- 
cease? If so, I will assume the sad responsibility of break- 
ing the news.” 

No one vouchsafed an answer, but two of the men pres- 
ent hurriedly left the room. They were going to announce 
the murder to the first policeman they met upon the street. 

Thd man of God — after waiting for an answer to his in- 
quiry, and receiving none — turned to the corpse, and with 
a sad, sorrowful countenance, stood gazing upon the 
white, cold face. 

“Struck down* in the strength of his manhood,” he mur- 
mured, as if to himself. “Oh, God, thy ways are mysteri- 
ous.” Then the thin lips slowly moved in silent prayer — 
prayer for the soul of this one ; a stranger — but a human 
being — one of God^s creatures. 

At this moment came the sound of advancing footsteps 
— footsteps in the hall. Bold, firm' tread, that foretokened 


CONFESSION OF LOERAINE HERSCHEL. 


19 


the coming of determined, fearless men; those who must 
now take the case in hand, ferret out the cold-blooded, 
heartless assassin who had done this thing. 

The police ! 

Gradually they grew nearer; more distinctly could the 
firm, bold tread be heard; the bystanders heard the sound, 
the clerk recognized it, and drew back to the writing 
table. 

The officers entered the room ; two patrolmen and a ser- 
geant. 

“Stand by the door!” commanded the sergeant; then ad- 
vancing to the bed, the patrolmen obeying their superior. 

“A horrible affair !” muttered the officer, glancing keen- 
ly at the corpse. “Who knows anything about this?” he 
demanded, his eyes sweeping the apartment, resting an 
instant upon each of the faces before him, ending with 
Seabrooke. 

“No one. Sergeant,” replied the clerk, coming forward. 

“Tell me what you know,” then, with another sweep- 
ing glance, “first, who found the corpse?” 

“I did. Sergeant.” 

“Accidentally? No, I can see the door has been broken 
in. You did this?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Who called upon you to do so?” 

“The chambermaid.” 

“Where is she?” 

“Over there,” with a sweep of the hand toward the still 
unconscious girl. 

“Fainted?” looking at the girl. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Tell me all you know,” turning from the girl. 

In as few words as possible the clerk, respectful in the 


\H) CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 

presence of an officer of the law, related all that had hap- 
pened. Concluding, he said: 

“The girl seemed so frightened and was so anxious to 
have the door opened, that I sent for an axe and smashed 
it in.’’ 

“The girl was frightened, eh?’^ 

“Yes, Sergeant.” 

“Humph! Anybody else here know anything about 
this case?” 

“They don’t know nothin’ about it, Sergeant. They all 
came when I began to hammer at the door.” 

“Clear the room, then,” sharply. 

Slowly and reluctantly the crowd moved toward the 
door. They would have preferred remaining. 

The room being cleared, the minister being the last to 
go, the Sergeant turned to the clerk again. 

“This girl,” with a gesture toward the chambermaid, 
who was beginning to show signs of returning conscious- 
ness. “This girl. How long has she been in your house?” 

“About? four months.” 

“You say you are the clerk here?” 

“Day clerk and manager. We have a night man.” 

“Your name?” 

“Alfred Seabrooke.” 

“Well, Mr. Seabrooke, do you think this girl knows 
anything about this affair?” watching the coarse face of 
the man attentively. 

The clerk pursed his lips. “Well — I don’t know,” he 
said, slowlv. 

“I asked you what you thought?” 

“I don’t think she does,” replied Seabrooke. 

With a shrug of the shoulders, the policeman turned and 
walked over to one of the patrolmen. A few hurried 


COOTESSION OF LOKRAINE HERSCHEL. 


21 


words in a low tone, and the man left the apartment. Then 
a command to his companion, and he, too, hurried away. 
The Sergeant, now alone with the clerk and the uncon- 
scious girl, began pacing the apartment. 

“Too bad,” he muttered, glancing at the corpse as he 
passed it. “Too bad;” then turning to Seabrooke, he re- 
marked : “The coroner will soon be here, and with him a 
detective from the Central Station. We will soon be able 
to begin an investigation.” 

“I hope you'll be successful,” observed the clerk. 

“We will have a try for it, at any rate,” briefly replied the 
officer. 

With this remark he turned and walked to one of the 
two windows which afforded light to the apartment. Glanc- 
ing out of the one nearest the wall, he uttered an exclama- 
tion which he repressed almost as soon as he had ex- 
pressed it. Seabrooke, whose ears were good, glanced in- 
quiringly at him; but the Sergeant gave him no satisfac- 
tion. If he had discovered anything strange, he kept it to 
himself. A faint sigh at that moment attracted the atten- 
tion of both. It emanated from the girl, who, they now 
saw, had recovered consciousness, and was sitting up, 
staring in a bewildered manner about the room. 

The officer approached her. 

“You are feeling all right now?” he inquired, glancing 
keenly at her. 

“Yes, I am better,” she murmured, rising slowly to her 
feet, being assisted by the Sergeant, who remarked, short- 
ly: “Glad of it — a detective officer will be here before long, 
and he will probably want to ask you a few questions 
about this affair.” 

She turned pale, and averted her frightened eyes, and 
like a murmur came from her parted lips the words: 


22 


COISFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


“I know but little that will prove of value. I could not 
get in the room, and so went to Mr. Seabrooke for ad- 
vice and assistance,” then, looking him appealingly in the 
eyes, added, “I am very weak, sir; I would like to retire; I 
am ill — indeed I am.” 

A look of suspicion darkened the brow of the officer. 

“She knows more than she pretends to,” flashed through 
his mind. “She is weak, trembling; gives evidence of 
fear;” then aloud he said: “No, I cannot grant your re- 
quest. You will be obliged to remain here until the de- 
tective arrives.” 

At his words the girl’s face grew ghastly, unnat- 
ural in its extreme pallor. Her large eyes glanced hope- 
lessly from one side of the apartment to the other, finally 
resting upon the corpse. Reeling, she would have fallen, 
had not the officer caught her and placed her in a chair. 

“Come, come,’‘ he said, more kindly than he had yet 
spoken, experiencing a feeling of pity for this weak crea- 
ture. “Come, don’t give way like this. I don’t think you 
killed the man, nor are implicated in it in any way. The idea 
occurred to me that perhaps you know more about it than 
you wanted to tell. Explain one thing to me; then you 
can go.” 

She glanced hopefully up into his face; not a bad one, 
by any means — hard and stern from contact with crime, 
but softened now as he stood looking down upon her. 
Taking encouragement from his changed manner, the girl 
replied, her voice stronger and clearer than it had yet 
been. 

“I will explain anything I can, sir. Indeed, I will, ” so 
earnestly. 

“Good!” muttered the man to his beard. Seabrooke 
stood silently by, drinking in every word spoken. “Well. 


CONFESSION" OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


23 


then, it is this,” said the officer. “When you knocked on 
the door, and could not make the occupants of the room 
hear you, why didn’t you raise the window in the hall, and 
get out on the landing of the fire escape, and, walking 
along to the window of this room, which opens upon it, 
rap and see if that wouldn’t awaken the sleeping men? It 
would have been less trouble to have done this than to go 
down two flights' of stairs to summon the clerk. Come! 
Why didn’t you do that?” 

During the officer’s speech, the girl, who had listened 
eagerly at first, with the faint flush of expectancy upon her 
pale cheeks, changed color. The appealing, hopeful look 
in the gray eyes grew anxious, hopeless again; when he 
had concluded, she said, faintly, catching her breath in 
short gasps: 

‘T could not do that, sir; I would have feared to make 
the attempt,” beginning to sob. 

“Perhaps she didn’t think of it,” broke in the clerk at this 
juncture. “I didn’t myself; if I had, I wouldn’t have bust- 
ed in the door.” 

The officer paid no attention to the remark, simply stood 
looking down upon the nervous, agitated girl. 

“Well, we’ll know more about it later on,” he said, final- 
ly. “Ah, Treadwell, I am glad you have come,” address- 
ing a stranger who had at that moment entered the room. 
The newcomer acknowledged the greeting with a simple 
nod of the head, and then glanced quickly about him. 


CONFESSlOi^ OF LOIiKALNE HERSCIIEL. 


CHAPTER III. 

THE DETECTIVE INVESTIGATES. 

The girl continued to sob, each convulsion racking and 
shaking her delicate frame ; Seabrooke, feeling, somehow, 
that he had been slighted, but not quite understanding 
just how, stood between the writing table and the Ser- 
geant of police. The newcomer, called Treadwell by the 
officer, stood just inside the door, and not far from the 
weeping girl, hat in hand, his inquisitive eyes roving about 
the room. 

Finally he spoke, as if in answer to the policeman’s salu- 
tation. 

“You sent for me. Sergeant, so I came as quickly as 
possible,” the eyes resting curiously upon the chamber- 
maid. 

“Very good,” remarked the Sergeant; then to the girl, 
“Come, come, my girl. Don’t go on like that. We are not 
going to kill you. You need feel no alarm;” then whis- 
pering a few words in the newcomer’s ear, he turned to 
Seabrook, and said: 

“Mr. Seabrooke, this is Mr. Daniel Treadwell, one of 
our shrewdest secret agents. He will wish to question 
you later ; also this girl. Y ou will be rendering us valuable 
assistance by keeping this lady where no one can 
visit her, and where she can be found when wanted by us. 
You understand,” winking significantly. 

“I think I do. Sergeant,” replied the clerk, with a pan- 


CONFESSION OF LOKRAINE HERSCHEL. 


25 


tomimic movement as of turning a key in a lock. The offi- 
cer nodded. “Precisely/^ he said ; “now take the girl with 
you and go. Mr. Treadwell and I wish to be alone. Don^t 
go far, and — look out,” with another wink in the direction 
of the girl. 

Seabrooke nodded, and laying his hand on the girPs 
shoulder, said: 

“Come, Rachel, wedl get out. These gentlemen want to 
be alone.” 

“What are they going to do, Mr. Seabrooke?” she whis- 
pered. 

“Never you mind; you come with me. They’ll tend to 
their own business,” and he pushed her before him. 

“They won’t confine me, Mr. Seabrooke?” the faint voice 
cried, the frail form swaying from the effect of the rough 
action. 

The man was about to reply, when Treadwell, the de- 
tective — shaking his head in the negative, to caution Sea- 
brooke to silence — came rapidly toward her. 

“No, no, my child,” he said softly, smoothly. “You 
shall not be locked up. You go with this gentleman and 
compose yourself. I wish to talk with you presently. Think 
of all you know about this affair, and when I come to 
question you, tell me freely.” 

With a sharp glance into the piercing eyes of the de- 
tective, in which she seemed to read truth and honor, the 
girl turned and slowly left the room, followed by Sea- 
brooke, who signified by a gesture the fact that he would 
keep his eye upon her. 

They had no sooner gone than Treadwell, turning to the 
Sergeant, said in a sharp, business-like tone : 

“What is this affair?” 

“Murder, I think.” 


26 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE IlERSCHEL. 


“How much have you discovered?” 

“Very little. I can tell you all in a few minutes.” 

“We’ll let that wait, then. Where is the corpse?” 

Silently the Sergeant crossed the room to the bed. In 
a few seconds the detective stood by the dead man. 

“A brutal deed,” he muttered, stooping over the body. 
“A butcher committed this crime. Move that bedstead 
out of the way. Sergeant.” 

Walking to the opposite side of the bed, the officer 
rolled the piece of furniture back toward the wall, re- 
vealing the entire body. With a quick cry the detective 
sprang forward and picked up two articles which lay upon 
the floor. They had been concealed by the bedstead. 

“What have you found?” cried the policeman. 

Silently the detective displayed his find. 

A bloody razor, a crumpled, blood-stained scrap of 
paper! 

A cry of surprise from the Sergeant. 

“The weapon with which the crime was committed!” 
he cried. 

“Beyond a doubt,” muttered Treadwell, at the same 
time smoothing out the scrap of paper. An exclamation of 
satisfaction escaped him, as he finished the task. 

“If I mistake not, this paper will render us Valuable 
aid in ferreting out the criminal,” he said, slowly. 

The sergeant approached him. 

“What is it?” he inquired. 

“An express money envelope,” replied Treadwell, show- 
ing it to him. 

For an instant the two officers silently examined the 
stained and torn clew. An ordinary manilla paper money 
envelope of the Southern Express , Company. From the 
address they learned that the money which it had once 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


27 


contained had been sent to Roger Deveaux, Brown’s 
Hotel, from Maloney & Co., Owensboro, Ky., and the 
amount had been $2,500. 

Treadwell broke the silence. 

“This envelope has either been addressed to the mur- 
dered man or the murderer. We can easily ascertain 
which by referring to the hotel register or by questioning 
the clerk. Search the room carefully, and see if there is 
any further clew.” 

Placing the envelope and razor in his pocket, the officer 
did as bidden, while the detective, stooping over the 
corpse, gently raised the hand, which concealed the eyes 
and a portion of the forehead. 

A cry of pity escaped him as he did so. 

“This man was blind. Sergeant!” he cried, in a low 
tone. 

His companion hastily crossed the apartment. 

“Blind?” he cried. 

“Yes. See!” 

With pitying eyes the officers gazed upon the exposed 
face and lofty brow. The detective had spoken truly. The 
dead man had been blind. Extending diagonally from 
the right eyebrow down across the eye, the upper portion 
of the nose, and the left eye and cheek, was a hideous 
cicatrice, like the scar produced by a severe burn. The 
left eye was entirely gone. 

“Poor fellow!” muttered the sergeant. “He fell an 
easy victim. Blind — in total darkness — the assassin, with 
stealthy footstep, could, without difficulty, commit the 
fiendish deed. It seems to me that some men have no 
hearts.” 

Silently and reverently the detective covered the dead 
man with the white counterpane from the bed. Then, 


28 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


crossing the room to the window, he turned to the sergeant 
(who had followed him) and said in a low tone, as if fear- 
ful of waking the dead. 

“The coroner will be here soon?’’ 

“I have sent for him. I expected him with you.” 

“Tell me now what you have discovered.” 

The sergeant did so. 

“Then you have an idea that this girl is concealing 
something?” 

“I could almost swear to it.” 

“She seemed nervous when you spoke of the landing?” 

“Extremely so.” 

“How did you come to speak of the fire escape? Did 
any one mention the fact of one being there?” 

“No. Accidentally glancing out of the window, I saw 
that the landing of the Escape extended from the window 
of the hall to this one. The thought occurred to me that 
by this means the assassin had gained entrance to the 
room and, thinking perhaps the girl knew something of it, 
I put the question.” 

“With the result that you frightened her terribly.” 

“About that.” 

“What were the exact words of her answer?” 

The sergeant repeated them. 

“Reasonable enough,” musingly. “Seabrooke, the 
clerk, stated that he had not thought of the fire escape, or 
he would not have broken in the door. I heard him as 
I was about to enter. Perhaps the girl did not think of 
it, or, if she did, was too much frightened to make use of it. 
Some women are timid and nervous, and not all of them 
would fancy climbing out of a third-story window upon 
a shaky old iron fire escape.” 

A cynical smile came to the bearded lips of the ser- 
geant. 


CONFESSION OF LOKKAINE IIERSCHEL. 


29 


“You want to give the girl the benefit of the doubt, I 
see,” he said. 

“Why, yes. I would hate to think that girl guilty of try- 
ing to thwart justice. She don’t look it.” 

Again the sarcastic smile. 

“You can’t tell anything by a woman’s looks what she 
is capable of. You go to her and put her through a little 
sharp questioning — not too harsh, because you can see 
she can’t stand it, but positive, firm, leading questions, 
and you’ll find she knows more than you think she does, 
and is a darn sight deeper than either of us give her 
credit for. You mark my words.” 

The sergeant spoke warmly. A faint sigh came from 
his companion. 

“Perhaps so,” he said. 

The sound of footsteps in the hall. 

“The coroner,” laconically remarked the sergeant. 

“Delay the inquest for an hour,” cried Treadwell. “I 
want to interview this girl before she is brought before 
the coroner. I think I can get at the facts better by a pri- 
vate interview than in any other way.” 

“I agree with you,” replied the other, and Treadwell 
left the room as the coroner and a hastily impaneled jury 
entered it. 


30 


CONFESSlOlsr OF LOEEAINE HEESCHEL. 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE INTERVIEW. 

The detective hurried along the corridor, down the 
staircase to the office. The porter stood gaping up the 
stairs as the officer came down. 

“Has de ^quest begun, sah?’^ he asked, his eyes rolling. 

“Not yet. Where is Mr. Seabrooke?” 

“Guess he done gone to de room.” 

“What room?” impatiently. 

“De room whar Rachel Adler am.” 

“Oh ! — ^the chambermaid.” 

A succession of guttural sounds came from the darky. 

“Where is this room?” 

“I’ll show you, sah.” 

Up the stairs flew the negro, along the hall to a dirty, 
dingy passage, seemingly in another and older part of 
the building, stopping at last before a rough, unpainted 
door. 

“He’s in dar,” he gurgled, smiling mysteriously. 

“All right. You can go, and here is a quarter for you,” 
flinging the coin, which the darky caught deftly. 

“Thank’ee, sah,” and the sable porter disappeared from 
sight. 

After a moment’s hesitation the detective rapped on 
the door. 

“Come in!” he heard the voice of Seabrooke cry out. 

Pushing the door, he found it opened readily. There 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE IIERSCHEL, 


31 


was neither latch nor lock upon the structure, only a loop 
of rope, possibly two feet in length, which was secured 
from a nail upon the inside of the door to a similar ar- 
ticle driven into the wall, upon one side of the entrance. 
The door opened as far as the rope would permit. Insert- 
ing his hand, Treadwell loosened one end of the primitive 
fastening and entered. 

The apartment, small and narrow, was but scantily 
furnished. In point of fact, there was but little room for 
furniture. A narrow iron cot bed filled one side com- 
pletely, while a small, cheap trunk close to the window 
nearly filled the space upon that side. Two splint-bot- 
tomed chairs stood near the center of the room, and from 
a number of nails, driven in the wall to the left of the 
door, the scanty wardrobe of the occupant depended. 
Not a comfortable apartment, by any manner of means. 
Seated upon the trunk, his head bowed to escape striking 
the low ceiling, which came to within a few inches of the 
window, on that' side of the room, sat Seabrooke, his eyes, 
watchful, keenly supervisient, fixed upon the form of the 
girl — Rachel Adler, the chambermaid, who lay recumbent 
upon the cot, her face hidden in the dirty pillow, sobbing 
softly. She did not even move as the detective entered, 
although she must have heard him. 

‘T have kept my eye on her,” observed Seabrooke, shift- 
ing his gaze to the detective’s face. 

‘T did not tell you to remain and guard her,” replied 
the officer impatiently. 

“But there ain’t any lock on the door and she would 
a’ skipped if I hadn’t,” muttered the man. 

“You can go now. I think you will be needed upstairs. 
The coroner has arrived and your statement will be 
needed at the inquest. I will attend to the girl.” 


82 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


The fellow moved slowly toward the door, opened it 
and passed out. A sudden thought came to the detective. 
He hurried after him. 

“Seabrook!” he called, opening the door. 

The clerk, who had gone but a few steps, stopped and 
returned. 

“What was the name of tne man who occupied 
room 47?” 

“There was two men in 47, sir.” 

“Two men? You did not mention this fact before,” 
sharply. 

“Didn’t I? I guess I didn’t think. I supposed every- 
body knew it. A man will git flustered mightily over a 
thing like this,” in an apologetic tone of voice. 

“So there were two men.” musingly. “Where is the 
other?” 

“You’ve got me there; I don’t know.” 

A light flashed upon the detective’s mind. 

“The names of the two men?” 

“One was Roger Deveaux, the other Henry Allen.” 

Roger Deveaux ! — the name upon the envelope. 

“Which of these two is the dead man upstairs?” 

“Mr. Deveaux.” 

“Ah, thank you! You can go now. I guess I can get 
along all right without you,” and, turning from the clerk, 
he re-entered the room, and approached the girl. 

She was in the same position as when he had first en- 
tered, but the sobs had ceased, and she was lying perfectly 
quiet. 

Drawing a chair to the side of thei cot, he addressed her 
by name. 

“Rachel,” he said, softly. 

She gave no evidence of having heard him. 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


33 


“My girl,” he continued, “you have no reason to fear 
me. I am your friend, and have no desire to do you harm. 
I think you can give me some information concerning 
the sad affair which has taken place here, and all I ask of 
you is to tell me just what and how much you do know.” 

Still no response; only a nervous shudder, a quicken- 
ing of the breath. 

For a moment the detective waited; then, seeing that 
the girl was determined to remain silent, he adopted an- 
other plan — one that he believed would unseal her lips in 
case she really was trying to conceal her knowledge. 

In a tone expressive of knowledge he said: 

“You will not speak? You are acting unwisely, and 
your reasons for thus acting I cannot comprehend. Let 
me tell you something: I already know who has com- 
mitted this deed.” 

With a sudden start, a quick convulsive movement, the 
girl sat erect in the bed, and stared at him with wild eyes. 
Without waiting for her to speak, the detective continued: 

“Yes, I have found in the room evidence that points 
conclusively to the murderer. Before an hour has passed 
it will be proven at the inquest that the man who shared 
Roger Deveaux^s room foully murdered him. See ! Here 
is the bloody razor; here the envelope that brought the 
money for which Henry Allen took the life of his com- 
panion. You see you cannot shield him by remaining 
silent, still your evidence, I believe, will go far toward 
proving these facts to be true. So come; tell me all.” 

During the speech the girl sat staring as one fascinated 
at the shrewd, yet kindly face of the officer. When he 
drew from his pocket the razor and envelope her eyes 
shifted to the ghastly objects, and seemed to be examin- 
ing them closely. Gradually a change came over her face ; 


34 


CONFESSIO]^^ OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


the eyes lost the wild stare, the thin lips parted, showing 
the white teeth, a look of knowledge illuminated her eyes 
and a sigh of relief escaped her parted lips. 

“You found these things in the room?” she inquired, in 
a low tone, glancing up into the face of the officer. 

“Yes.” 

“And he, Mr. Allen, has he been found?” 

“Not yet; but he cannot escape us.” 

“You have never seen him?” 

“No; but we can, of course, get a description of him 
from the clerk.” 

“If you saw him you would not think him guilty of 
such a terrible thing,” shuddering. 

“Are you well acquainted with him?” questioned Tread- 
well. 

“No, not very,” she replied, slowly. 

“You have seen him?” 

“Oh, yes.” 

“And talked with him?” 

A look of surprise came to her eyes; then in a soft, 
tender voice* she said : 

“I have never talked with him, sir. He cannot talk. 
He is dumb!” 

Treadwell started in amazement Strange, companions, 
truly. One blind, the other dumb. 

“Not deaf?” he asked. 

“No, sir, only dumb,” sadly. 

“That fact will be of vast assistance to me,” remarked 
the officer. “Now, then, will you assist me further?” 

“How can I ?” she murmured plaintively. “How can I ?” 

Treadwell began to show signs of impatience. 

“Come, come!” he said quickly. “Time is flying. I 
must know what you are trying to keep hidden. I do 


CONFESSION OF LOKKAINE HEKSCHEL. 


35 


not wish to subject you to the trying ordeal of harsh ques- 
tioning by the coroner, and it will be necessary, if you do 
not come out frankly and make a clean breast of it. Your 
actions are strange. Why should you seek to shield this 
man?’’ 

His sharp tones brought the red blood to the girl’s 
pale face, and aroused her spirit, for, rising to her feet 
and confronting him, she replied, her eyes flashing, her 
form erect: 

“To my mind it is a doubtful policy to attempt to force 
from a woman anything that she does not wish to divulge ; 
by kindness much more can be attained than by harshness 
at all times. I will admit that up to a few moments ago 
you have acted considerately and in a gentlemanly man- 
ner, but, believing me stubborn or possessed with a desire 
to thwart justice, you have forgotten yourself and ad- 
dressed me in an improper manner. Haste is ever incon- 
siderate. I am not attempting to shield Mr. Allen, sir, al- 
though I do not believe him guilty of the crime of murder. 
I have told the sergeant of police all I know of the horrible 
affair. I could not say more if placed upon the rack. You 
have shown me certain articles which you claim will fasten 
this crime upon Mr. Allen. I hope you will find you are 
mistaken, but if you are convinced of their efficacy I would 
suggest that you look to them, not to me, for your suc- 
cess. 

“Will you kindly leave me, sir? I am in distress, sorely 
fatigued.” 

The words, the action caused the detective to stand and 
stare at her in perfect amazement. He had not supposed 
the girl possessed of such spirit, had seen Seabrooke push 
her roughly before him in the room 47 but an hour before, 
and she had not even seemed to notice it — had, in fact. 


36 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


seemed overcome with agitation. Now, imperiously al- 
most, she turns upon him, and in choice, well-selected 
language, tells him to go about his business and leave her 
in peace. Well, a decided change, in point of fact, and one 
that puzzled while it astonishes him. He wasted little 
time, however, in thought. There was something else 
to claim his attention, and so, with an involuntary but 
expressive shrug of the shoulders, he said, quietly: 

“Pardon me if I have given offense. It was not my in- 
tention to seem harsh nor overbearing. I simply felt im- 
patient and forgot myself. I regret that I cannot accede 
to your wish to be left alone. You know the coroner 
awaits us in the room where the corpse is lying. It is 
necessary that you should be there. Come.^^ 

Growing pale and weak at his words, the girl gave vent 
to a half-repressed sigh and then, without saying anything 
further, preceded him from the room, up the stairs, along 
the hall, to the room where the coroner sat, impatiently 
waiting upon Treadwell, to begin proceedings. 


CONFESSION OF LOKKAINE llERSCHEL. 


87 


CHAPTER V. 

TREADWELL PUZZLED. 

The inquest was not of long duration; the witnesses 
were few, and had but little to say. The girl, Rachel Adler, 
pale and trembling, hesitatingly repeated what she had 
before stated, and was excused. But the silent but appar- 
ently convincing proofs in the hands of the detective, to- 
gether with the evidence of several of the witnesses, 
seemed sufficient for the coroner’s jury, who brought in 
a verdict to the effect that “Roger Deveaux, the deceased, 
had met his death at the hands of Henry Allen.” 

The several little items of testimony, such as the depo- 
sition of the express agent to the effect that he had de- 
livered a money package to Mr. Deveaux only the day 
before, and the statement of a neighboring saloon-keeper 
that he had heard censorious words addressed by the de- 
ceased to his companion at one time, rating him for ex- 
travagance, went far to prove that “Henry Allen did feloni- 
ously and in cold blood take the life of Roger Deveaux by 
severing the jugular vein with a razor.” 

Now that it was given out that Henry Allen, a mute, 
had committed this deed, it became necessary to find him 
in order to deliver him up to justice, and so Daniel Tread- 
well, a man celebrated upon the police force of Baltimore 
as a marvel of shrewdness and perspicacity, began his 
work of trailing by finding out all he possibly could of the 
relations existing between the two strange companions 


88 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCflEL. 


by “sweating” the clerk. The chambermaid had gone to 
her room immediately after the inquest. She seemed weak 
and nervous. Judging from the unwonted color upon her 
cheeks, she appeared burning up with fever, and so she 
obtained permission from the clerk to go to her room and 
bed. 

“You will oblige me by closing the door,” said Tread- 
well when he and the clerk were alone inThe private room 
of the latter. 

Seabrooke silently obeyed him, and then occupied a 
chair opposite the detective. 

“How long have Roger Deveaux and Henry Allen 
been stopping with/ you?” was the first question. 

The clerk pursed up his lips and threw back his head 
in order to assist his brain in earnest calculation pf time. 

“ ^Bout three months,” he replied, finally. 

“Relate the circumstances attending their arrival here.” 

“Well, to tell the truth, there wasn’t nothin' strange 
about their cornin'. Still, if you want to know I’ll tell you. 
First you must know that ole man Brown, who had kept 
this hotel for forty years, died about two weeks before 
these men came here. The property fell to his oldest 
daughter, a woman about forty-five years old, who lives 
in Annapolis^ and who don't keer a darn about hotel 
business. She put the ole buildin' in my charge, an' let me 
run it to suit myself. Ole man Brown use ter do a good 
dear of farmers' trade, but there ain't nothin' in that line- 
meals at a quarter a head, lodgin's at the same price, and 
all the dirt and litter them fellers make. So, when she put 
me in charge I jist make up my mind that I would cut 
down expenses and take in boarders by the week, an' fill 
the house up with 'em. More money in the long run in 
weekly boarders, I kin tell you. They keep up many a 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


89 


hotel. So I put an advertisement in the Sun, stating that 
nice rooms and good meals could be had here at reason- 
able prices, and 'it wasn’t long before I had all the best 
rooms taken. You see, this is a good location, right on 
Low street, only a few blocks from Baltimore street, and 
near Gay, an’ lots of clerks an’ young fellers came here 
for rooms.” 

“Cut this part of it,” cried the detective, impatiently. 
“Come down to what I want to know.” 

The fellow’s loquacity annoyed him. 

“I am leadin’ up to it, Mr. Treadwell; all this is part of 
it,” replied Seabrooke, earnestly. 

“All right, then; go ahead.” 

“Well, then, one mornin’, about half past nine, a hack 
stopped before the hotel an’ two men got out. One of ’em 
was a tall, powerful-lookin’ man, with long, curly, brown 
hair, jist beginnin’ to be streaked with gray. A man about 
fifty, I should jedge. He had a long beard, that covered 
his face and across his forehead was a big scar, which 
covered his eyes, too. He was blind. The scar told me 
that. He is dead, upstairs now. The other man looked 
older. His hair cut short, different from the other, was 
white as snow, and he hadn’t nary a sign of whiskers on 
his face. His eyes were good enough. They were quick 
an’ active. Seemed to be dancin’ in his head, an’ looked 
as if they could go right through a man. He led the other 
man into the office an’ up to the desk. 

“ ‘You have comfortable rooms here?’ asked the blind 
man, in a deep voice. 

“ ‘Yes, sir,’ I answered. 

“ ‘Where we can be free from intrusion and noise?’ he 
said. 

“ ‘Yes, sir. I’ll give you two good rooms that I know 
will suit you,’ I told him. 


40 


CONFESSION OF LOKRAINE IIERSCHEL. 


“ ‘We, will need but one/ he said, a kinder sad smile 
upon his face. 

“ ‘We cannot be separated. He is my eyes. I am' his 
tongue. I am blind, as you see ; my companion is dumb.’ 

“I stood an’ looked at ’em in surprise for a minit. They 
knocked me out. Funny; two men to help each other 
along, one feller to see, the other to talk. 

“ ‘All right, sir,’ I said at last. T’ll give you room 47. 
That is on the top floor. You won’t be annoyed by noise 
from the street or office and you. kin be by yourselves.’ 

“ ‘We will take it,’ said the blind man, while the dumb 
man acted as if it suited him, also. 

“They never said a word about price. So I charged ’em 
.a dollar a day each. They would need a good deal of 
waitin’ on, and T thought they could stand it. They never 
■kicked, but paid the bill every week like honest men, al- 
though they owe me four days’ board now. But I won’t 
kick about that. You can’t expect a dead man to pay 
board.” 

“Go on! go on! Never mind the board!” The detective 
was growing impatient. 

The clerk glanced at him from the corners of his eyes 
semi-reproachfully, and then said: 

“I'hcre ain’t any more to say. They took the room, had 
their baggage sent up— two big grips only— and they have 
been here ever since. 

“So this is all you know of them?” 

“All.” 

“Did they appear to be warm friends?” 

“Like brothers. I never did see two men who seemed 
so lovin’ to each other as them two. They went out walkin’ 
every day, and would be gone an hour or so. They never 
stayed in the office much, but when they did they used ter 


CONFESSION OF LOKKAINE IIERSCHEL. 4i 

talk an’ laugh, as though they hadn’t a care in the world.” 

'‘Talk and laugh? I thought you said one of the men 
was dumb?” 

"So he was, but he used to talk to the blind man with 
his fingers, take hold of his hand and press it in different 
ways. The blind man would answer him, sometimes the 
same way, but offener by speakin’.” 

"Then you don’t think they quarreled?” 

"Oh, once or twice I’ve heard the blind man givin’ the 
other man fits about spendin’ a good deal of money in 
some way or another. I think he used ter send it or give 
it to a woman.” 

"Who?” 

"The dumb man, Mr. Allen. Mind you, I ain’t sure of 
this, but from several things I’ve heard the blind man say 
I come to that conclusion.” 

"A woman,” mused Treadwell. "There is usually a 
woman in the case. Lecoq was known to have said: 
'Show me the woman in the case and I’ll show you the 
criminal.’ I wonder if there is a woman in this case.” He 
remained silent, his brain busy. The saloon-keeper had 
mentioned the fact that he had heard the blind man use 
strong language regarding extravagance on the part of 
the other. Perhaps it! was as Seabrooke said. 

*'I must try to find this woman,” he muttered to him- 
self. 

Arousing himself, he said to the clerk, who sat silently 
watching him. 

"One other thing, Mr. Seabrooke. This girl, Rachel 
Adler, your chambermaid?” 

"One of ’em, sir; we have two,” corrected Seabrooke. 

"It does not matter. What do you know of her?” 

"Nothin’,” laconically. 


42 


CONFESSION OF LOHKAINE HEKSCHEL. 


The detective stared at him in surprise. 

“Nothing?’^ he repeated. “Do you engage young girls 
to work for you without investigating their characters, 
without requiring references?” 

The clerk fidgeted in his chair and grew red in the face. 

“Well, not as a rule; but this gal was engaged by the 
missus, who seemed to take a great likin’’ to her. She was 
here on a business matter, the missus was, and the gal, 
Rachel, came in answer to an advertisement in the paper. 
I asked her for references. She had none. I told her I 
couldn’t hire her without, and was goin’ to turn her 
away when the missus, who was passin’, called her to her 
and said: ‘You don’t seem strong enough for the work.’ 
The gal said she only wanted a trial, and so, with that 
cryin’ way of hers, she managed to git around the missus, 
and she engaged her. She's been a purty good gal, 
though. I’ll say that for her. A little flighty, kinder for- 
getful, and so on, but a hard worker, and close mouthed.’’ 

“Yes, I found her so,” muttered Treadwell. 

“Did it never strike you that this girl was terribly out 
of place as a servant?” looking sharply at the clerk. 

“Well, yes. It has struck me several times. She has a 
kinder way about her, different from any chambermaid I 
ever saw, and I’ve seen heaps of ’em.” 

“Her language is that of a lady, her bearing much the 
same. She cannot be much past sixteen years of age,” 
continued the detective. 

“I never asked her her age,” remarked Seabrooke. 
“Women are kinder ticklish on that subject.” 

Treadwell smiled. 

“You are right,” he said. “How long has she been 
here?” 

“ ’Bout four months, as near as I kin reckon. Stop a 


.'CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 4B 

minit. Let me see. No! She ain’t been here that long. 
By gosh! she came here a couple of days after the two 
men in 47.” 

“Then that is about three months ago?” mused the de- 
tective aloud. 

“Jist about.” 

“Did she appear to know either of the men?” cried 
Treadwell, eagerly, a faint suspicion that such might be 
the case entering his mind. 

“No,” replied Seabrooke. “An’ the dumb man never 
showed that he knew her. She used ter go in an’ make 
up the room. If they had ever seen each other before they 
would have showed it.” 

“More than likely,” dismissing the thought from his 
mind. “She seems sick to-day,” he continued. “She was 
burning up with fever when she left the room after the 
inquest.” 

“Well, she’s had a purty hard time of it to-day,” ob- 
served the clerk. “A good night’s rest and she’ll be all 
right in the mornin’. I’ll give orders not to have her called 
to morrer mornin’. Let her sleep an’ give her a chance.” 

“I think that would be the best plan,” said Treadwell, 
rising and looking at his watch. “Nearly four o’clock. 
I’m much obliged to you, Seabrooke. Oh, by the way, 
you haven’t a photograph of this man Allen in your pos- 
session?” 

“No, sir. There may be' one in his grip upstairs. I’ll 
look and see, if you say so.” 

“No, at least I do not care particularly for it to-day. I 
shall probably be in to see you to-morrow. You had better 
put their belongings in shape and lock them up until 
further developments.” 

So saying the detective left the hotel. 


44 


CONFESSION OF LOERAINE HERSCHEL. 


“Why did Henry Allen take the life of his companion?^- 
he muttered. “What reason could there have been for the 
act? Well, time alone can solve the mystery. I guess Pll 
go get supper. I feel rather hungry.’^ 


CONFESSION OF LOKRAINE HERSCHEL. 


46 


CHAPTER VI. 

AN UNEXPECTED TURN OF AFFAIRS. 

Our friend was a bachelor and, like others of his un- 
fortunate (?) class, rented lodgings and took his meals 
wherever mealtime found him. 

The particular restaurant toward which he was hurry- 
ing was a well-known and popular establishment on Balti- 
more street, and the detective knew a good meal awaited 
him there. 

He was very hungry', having eaten an early breakfast, 
and lost his dinner, but he made up for it at supper. 
The meal he ate astonished even the hardened waiters, 
and, lighting a good cigar, he strolled out and stood near 
the curb, divided between an inclination to go home and 
to bed, and another to take in the theater. 

The former gained ascendency; so, pulling his hat down 
over his eyes, and taking a fresh hold on his cigar with his 
teeth, he started up Baltimore street at a lively gait. 

His lodgings were on Broadway, not far from Baltimore 
street, quite a distance from the place where he had eaten 
supper, but he preferred walking to riding when he had 
plenty of time at his disposal, and so he started home on 
foot, not observing a figure emerging from the shadows 
of the doorway and noiselessly dogging his steps. A 
brisk walk of thirty minutes brought the detective to the 
corner of Baltimore street and Broadway. His cigar had 
gone out, and, in fact, was nearly smoked out, there being 


46 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


but a short stump left, but it was a good one, and he 
wanted to get all from it that he possibly could. So, step- 
ping into the shelter of a neighboring sign-board, he 
struck a match and prepared to relight it. Only one puff 
did he take, the stub fell from his lips, the match flickered 
and died out, the man stood and stared in amazement, 
for not three feet from where he stood, standing in the 
middle of the pavement, his face uncovered, his bright, 
piercing eyes fixed full upon the detective’s face, stood a 
man — the exact fulfillment of the description given him 
by Alfred Seabrooke of Henry Allen, the very man he 
wanted — the murderer of Roger Deveaux. 

For an instant only did Daniel Treadwell stand trans- 
fixed with astonishment. The next he recovered his senses 
and taking one stride toward the silent, mysterious 
stranger, placed his hand upon his shoulder and said : 

“You are Henry Allen!” 

The strange one threw off the hand and, looking the 
detective full in the face, nodded his head affirmatively. 
Then, making a gesture toward the street lamp, upon the 
corner — but a few steps distant — he drew from his pocket 
a writing tablet and pencil, and signified that he wished 
to write something. 

The officer led the way to the corner. Standing where 
the light of the gas could shine upon the tablet, the man 
wrote a few lines rapidly upon the paper and then handed 
it to the detective. 

“Yes, I am Henry Allen. I have been following you. 
I must have a private interview with you,” the detective 
read. 

A private interview ! Here was a pretty turn of affairs. 
What could it mean? A moment’s thought and the de- 
tective said : 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 

“Very well, sir. My rooms are but a few steps from here. 
We will go to them. We shall be free from intrusion 
there.” 

The bright eyes of the mute glistened. He nodded his 
head in a satisfied manner, and motioned for the officer 
to proceed. 

A short walk of perhaps three minutes and the two men 
reached the detective^s lodging. The gas was burning 
in the hall way at the foot of the stairs, and, allowing the 
prisoner (for virtually he was such) to precede him, the 
detective made the way to his apartments, which were 
on the first floor above. Unlocking and opening the door, 
the officer ushered his strange companion into the first 
room, used by him as a sitting-room. The gas was not 
burning, but it did not take long to ignite a match and 
light it, and as the flood of gas illuminated the scene the 
detective gave a rapid glance at the face of the man who 
was supposed to be the guilty, blood-stained wretch who 
had but a few hours before foully murdered his friend and 
companion, and somehow that quick glance made the 
detective feel that the man before him could not have com- 
mitted this deed. But he made no remark, only pushed 
forward a chair, upon which the white-haired man threw 
himself as if overcome by fatigue, and then, occupying 
another, waited to have the mute begin. 

While waiting, the officer furtively studied the face be- 
fore him. A sternly handsome countenance, smooth- 
shaven and marked by lines of suffering; a close, thin- 
lipped rnouth, the corners drawn as if by years of pain; 
the eyes blue — that bright blue seen sometimes in summer 
skies — keen, intelligent, thoughtful eyes that told the soul 
of the man, which took the place of tongue and speech; 
eyes that belied the murderous accusation under which 
their possessor was laboring. 


48 


CONFE«SIOX OF LOllRAlXE llERSCHEL. 


Suddenly, without warning, the mute turned his head, 
crowned with a mass of hair, snow-white and glistening, 
and looked the detective in the eyes. The officer^ returned 
the gaze without flinching — it seemed as if each man were 
trying to read the other. Then, taking his pencil, the 
dumb man began writing. The pencil literally flew over 
the tablet. For several minutes he continued and then 
handed the paper to the detective. 

This is what the officer read : 

“I am Henry Allen. I have read the papers to-day. 
They say I killed Roger Deveaux, that for $2,500 I took 
his life. You are Treadwell, the detective?’’ 

“Yes, what you have written is true,” replied the officer, 
returning the tablet. 

Another quick, sweeping glance, and the mute wrote 
again. 

“Very well. I have admitted that I am the man. You 
know that. I suppose that if it is proven that I committed 
this deed that I will be hung.” 

The detective, reading, nodded an affirmative. 

“Or, if any one were to commit murder in this state, 
they would surely be hung?” 

“Surely.” 

A moment’s thought, a contraction of the forehead, a 
look of resolution in the eyes, then the written words: 

“Then there is no use to try to evade the law. The 
scriptural doctrine is: ‘An eye for an eye; a tooth for a 
tooth.’ I confess L killed Roger Deveaux. I am your 
prisoner.” 

Reading the words, the detective uttered an exclama- 
tion of surprise. Could it be that this man of noble mien 
and soulful eyes could have really committed this deed? 
The evidence was against him, everything pointed to him 


C0NFE8S10X OF LOKRAINE HERSCHEL. 49 

as the guilty one; he even confessed it. But that con- 
fession, strange and unusual, seemed to say: “This man 
is innocent; this confession is a lie.’’ 

But why should the man deliberately give himself up 
and confess to a deed he never committed? Why should 
he give himself up at all? It was unusual. The self-con- 
fessed murderer sat watching him. Suddenly he pulled 
the tablet to him and wrote : 

“Why do you wonder? Does not the evidence go to 
prove me guilty? Do you not believe my confession to 
be the truth? You perhaps wonder why I have given 
myself up? 

“Do you not know that remorse eating at the heart 
makes the thought of death a welcome one, as a relief to 
the torture of the soul, as a joyous release from care and 
trouble, as a place of rest, broken into by no hideous, 
heart-rending remembrance? 1 say it again: I killed 
Roger Deveaux. I, and I alone, am the murderer. He 
was my friend, my tongue, my only companion. Yet I 
killed him. You understand it. I killed him.” 

The vehemence of the statement caused cold chills to 
creep along the spinal column of the officer. It seemed 
so unearthly, but it must be true. This man must be the 
murderer beyond doubt. 

. “As you confess the crime, there is nothing left for me to 
do but to turn you over to the jailer,” the detective said, 
a faint tinge of pity in his voice. “ You have given yourself 
up; you will accompany me to the central station, where 
you will stay to-night. In the morning you will be trans- 
ferred to the county jail, to remain there until your trial 
comes on.” 

The man gave evidence that he comprehended it all, 
knew what he could expect, and, rising from his chair, 


60 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE IIERSCHEJ.. 


Stood in an' attitude of eager expectancy, as if impatient to 
be off. Still the detective hesitated. The evident anxiety 
of the man to be put behind the bars seemed to him so 
strange, so unusual. Could it be remorse that had actu- 
ated this man of majestic mien, a man who looked less 
like a criminal than any one he had ever seen, to thus run 
his neck in the noose, to take upon himself a crime of 
which he was innocent? There came to his mind the 
strong evidence against him, the facts of the case suffi- 
ciently strong to warrant the coroner’s jury in returning 
a verdict against this very man, who stood pale and reso- 
lute before him. 

“What is coming over me?” he muttered. “A few hours 
ago I was laying plans to track this man, to bring him to 
the bar of justice, and now that he is here before me, at 
my mercy, my prisoner, I hesitate and feel that I am al- 
most committing a crime in arresting him. What is this? 
What does it mean? What has worked this change?” A 
glance at the white hair, the gentle eyes, and the answer 
came to his heart. “It is that face,” came the answer. 
“Those eyes, the true mirror of the soul of the man. His 
words written upon the paper may say T am guilty,^ but 
the face answers and says: ‘Innocent’ ” 

That was it The pale, handsome suffering face. 

With bowed head the officer considered. He would 
fain have told this man to go, free; he would at that mo- 
ment have even assisted him in the escape; but the man 
did not desire to escape; he came to give himself up. 

Looking up, Treadwell found the eyes of the other fixed 
upon him, a look of mute surprise in their expressive 
depths — surprise, faintly mingled with impatience. 

The writing tablet was lying near his hand. He wrote 
a few lines and handed the paper to the officer. 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


61 


“I am waiting. One would think to look in upon us 
that I was the officer, you the prisoner.” 

“By God ! I almost feel that I am the criminal, and you 
the innocent man,” burst from the detective’s lips. 

A look of tenderness came to the beautiful eyes. Taking 
the pencil, he wrote again : 

“You pity me. That is all. My suffering face and 
white hair has stirred the tender chords of your manly 
heart. You should not pity me. I am not deserving of it. 
I am a murderer. No matter what my appearance may in- 
dicate, my tongue says to you on this paper I am a 
blood-stained wretch. Take me to prison.” 

The detective, reading, gave vent to a sigh, and pre- 
pared to conduct his prisoner to the station. Suddenly 
a thought came to his mind. Turning to the man, he 
asked : “Why did you not go to police headquarters and 
give yourself up? If you were so anxious to be arrested, 
why go to the trouble of following me?” 

Again the pencil glided over the paper, the blue eyes 
flashing as the words formed themselves before the eyes 
of Daniel Treadwell. 

“I am no common criminal to be taken by a common 
man. I have been and am still a gentleman. I look upon 
you as my equal — a man of brains and a gentleman. Is 
the answer sufficient?” 

Treadwell grasped the strong white hand of the other 
and cried: 

“Aptly put, and now let me tell you something. I shall 
conduct you to the prison you so earnestly desire, because 
you so desire, not because I think you guilty of this hor- 
rible crime; but I will not allow you to sacrifice yourself 
without an effort to save you. I am an officer of the law. 
I shall do my duty and give you over to the jailer, but 
again I am your friend and I shall work to save you.” 


62 


CONFESSION OF LOKRAINE HERSCHEL. 


A tear came to the eye of the other, and he shook his 
head sadly; then, writing a line, only turned and walked 
toward the door. The detective read the line, eight words 
only. These: 

‘Tf you are my friend, let' me die!” 

He said no more, but, turning down the gas, prepared to 
leave the room. ■ 

In an hour Henry Allen was confined behind prison 
bars. 


CONFESSION OF LOKKAINE llEliSCHEL. 


63 


CHAPTER VIL 

HE IS NOT GUILTY.” 

The morning papers gave a wild and thrilling account 
of the arrest of the “daring murderer, who had been se- 
cured — after a desperate struggle — by the well-known and 
able detective, Officer Daniel Treadwell, etc., etc.” They 
had not heard the truth concerning the matter. So they 
drew upon their imaginations to supply the deficiency. 

So, when Treadwell reported at headquarters the next 
morning he was warmly congratulated by the chief, who 
had read the papers, and supposed the account correct. 

“A clever bit of work,” he exclaimed. “You tracked 
him down in short order.” 

“I did nothing of the kind,” retorted Treadwell. “The 
man followed me home and gave himself up. In fact, he 
insisted on being locked up. So I accommodated him. 
There is not one particle of credit due me.” And in a few 
words he gave the facts to the chief. 

“That is a different version of the affair,” remarked the 
other. “The papers have it that you tracked him down 
and arrested him only after a severe struggle.” 

“The papers do not always get things right,” replied 
Treadwell, “but I shall take the trouble to put the straight 
account in the evening edition. I don’t want any credit 
for this job. I don’t deserve it,” and he was as good as his 
word, for the evening edition of the Sun stated that the 
account published in the morning was incorrect, that Mr. 


54 


CONFESSION OF LORFAINE HERSCHEL. 


Daniel Treadwell, the able detective, etc., had called and 
given the correct version, etc., etc. The worthy officer 
felt out of sorts all day. He read the corrected account 
of the arrest with satisfaction. 

“I want things straight in this case,” he muttered, throw- 
ing the paper aside, and then, hoping to throw off the 
feeling of melancholy, of dissatisfaction that had taken 
strange and unusual possession of his mind, he left the 
station and started toward home. But the change did 
him but little good. Arriving at his lodgings, he tried to 
read, but the face of dumb Henry Allen seemed to come 
between the pages of the book and his eyes. He could 
not drive this man from his mind, try as hard as he would. 
It seemed as though he could see his form occupying the 
chair opposite, which still remained in the same position 
as on the previous night. Finally he threw the book from 
him and walked into his bed-room. Throwing himself 
upon the bed he tried to sleep, and after pitching around 
for a while was successful. He slept until a succession of 
knocks upon the door of his sitting-room aroused him 
to consciousness, and, rubbing his eyes, half dazed and 
not wholly awake, he went to the door. 

Throwing it open, he started back in surprise, for his 
visitor was a stranger and, to cap the climax, a female. 
Before he could recover from the surprise her presence 
caused him, the lady spoke, her voice sounding strange 
from behind the thick veil that shrouded her features, ef- 
fectually concealing her identity. 

‘'You are Mr. Treadwell?” came the muffled inquiry. 

“I am,” respectfully. 

“Mr. Daniel Treadwell, the detective?” 

“The same.” 

A faint sigh, as if of relief. 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCIIEL. 


55 


“I must see you, Mr. Treadwell, alone and at once. 
Pray pardon the boldness of my act, but, believe me, it is 
necessary.” The voice, low and appealing, the hands half 
raised, as if in dumb supplication, caused the officer, a 
gentleman every inch of him, to step aside, leaving the 
doorway free for her to enter. With a quick glance over 
the left shoulder, as if to assure herself that she was not 
being followed, the unexpected visitor glided into the 
room. Closing the door behind her, and sinking into the 
chair, which Treadwell hastened to place at her disposal 
(the chair that Henry Allen had occupied the night before), 
she allowed her hands to fall idly into her lap, the gloved 
fingers nervously intertwining and twitching. Standing 
opposite — the table before him — between them — the de- 
tective patiently waited. He wished her to begin the con- 
versation; but, although his tongue was silent, his brain 
was busy, busy- in deep thought, conjectures as to the 
identity of this woman and the object of her visit. 

Suddenly she aroused herself and raised her head. 

“We are alone?” she murmured. 

“Quite so,” he replied. 

“No one must overhear us,” she continued, nervously. 
“No ears but your own must hear my words.” 

Treadwell bowed. 

“You need have no fear,” he said assuringly. 

“It must be so. No one but you must hear what I have 
to say,” she repeated. “And, oh heaven, I pray that you 
will believe me and assist me,” the tone appealing, the 
fingers working. 

The detective bowed again. He scarcely knew how 
to reply. 

The woman sat silent, as if studying how to begin. The 
shadows of the dying day crept in through the windows. 
Night was coming on. 


56 


CONFESSION OF LOKRAINE HERSCHEL. 


“You doubtless think me strange. You are probably 
growing impatient/^ she murmured at last; “but, oh, you 
don’t know how hard it is for me to begin.” 

“Take your time; there is no hurry; I have no pressing 
business,” stammered Treadwell, at a loss what to say, 
but wishing to set her at ease. 

“You are very kind,” she said, gratefully. “I shall not 
detain you any longer than I can’t help. I have come to 
ask your assistance. I must not longer conceal my face 
from your eyes. You shall see my features and, looking 
in my eyes, you will believe me. You will not then doubt 
me,” rapidly speaking the words, at the same time remov- 
ing the pins that held the veil in place. 

“I assume this method of concealment to prevent recog- 
nition,’’ she continued. “But I do not wish to hide my face 
from you. There ! It is free,” throwing aside the veil. 

In the dusk of coming night the detective could see that 
the face, upturned to him, was that of a woman no longer 
young, but still bearing traces of a divine loveliness. 
Eyes black and soulful ; hair, the ebon shade of a raven’s 
wing; features, regular and clear-cut; a woman who at 
one time had been wonderfully beautiful. The veil thrown 
back from the brow showed the glossy hair, still un- 
touched by the snows of time, and in the liquid eyes a 
look of eager appeal, of anxious expectancy. 

“It is growing dark,” he suggested, turning from the 
appealing glance. “I will light the gas.” 

She made no response. So, taking a match from the 
stand upon the table, he struck it upon the side of the 
receptacle and applied the flickering blaze to the gas 
burner. 

The brilliancy of the light caused the woman to avert 
her eyes, turning the left cheek toward the detective and 


CONFESSION OF LOKUAINE IIERSCHEL. 57 

revealing a long, narrow cicatrice running the full length 
of the face — a hideous scar, that marred the beauty of the 
woman. At that moment she turned her full face toward 
him, and again raised her eyes to his face. Now, with the 
light shining full upon her, the detective placed her age at 
about five and forty. Without further hesitancy she be- 
gan, her voice low, but intense, her speaking eyes glowing 
and changing as the . conflicting emotion of her soul dic- 
tated. 

“I read in the morning papers that Henry Allen had 
been arrested by you after a severe struggle and placed 
in prison. In the evening edition I saw that you had cor- 
rected the account, that the man had given himself up, 
confessing to the crime, acknowledging himself as a mur- 
derer, a calculating assassin.” A ring of pain in the 
voice. 

“It is true, madam.” 

“Confessed himself guilty of as foul a deed as was ever 
perpetrated by man. Confessed he killed his friend. Oh, 
God ! willingly acknowledged it?” 

The words came in a wail, the ebon eyes showing the 
sufYering of the woman. 

“Quite true,” replied Treadwell, in a low, pitying tone. 

“And he is now in prison?” 

“I could not do otherwise than confine him. He wished 
it.” 

She seemed not to hear him. Rising to her* feet, she rap- 
idly paced the room, wringing her hands, the dress of 
heavy silk swishing from the movement of her limbs. 

Suddenly she ceased her rapid pace. With a mighty 
effort she controlled herself and, standing before the de- 
tective, said in a tone of overpowering conviction, her eyes 
upon his face: 


68 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL, 


“And yet he is innocent!” 

Treadwell started; the words came so suddenly. He 
returned her gaze, his keen eyes striving to pierce her soul. 

“Can you prove his innocence?” he asked, slowly, de- 
liberately. 

She turned from him, sinking into the chair behind 
her. The officer, his brain now working, the feeling of 
conviction that this woman knew something of the 
murder possessing him, came from behind the table and 
approached her. 

“Can you prove his innocence?” he repeated, sternly 
now, all restraint gone, the sleuth hound of his nature 
urging him on. 

“I cannot,” she murmured, her voice breaking, her face 
hidden in her hands. “Would to God I could.” 

The answer created a feeling of surprise in the mind of 
the man. 

“Yet you declare him innocent,” he muttered. “What 
foundation have you for your assertion?” 

He awaited the answer. It came : 

“I know his kindly nature. I know he could not com- 
mit such a foul deed,” still sobbing, the tears trickling from 
between the interlocked fingers. 

The answer did not satisfy the man. He told her so. 

“Your answer does not satisfy me,” he said slowly. • 
“From the tone of your voice, when you spoke the words 
‘He is innocent,’ I believe that you can prove his inno- 
cence, but for some reason you will not. Is not this true?” 

With a quick, nervous motion she dashed the tears 
from her eyes, and again looked him unflinchingly in the 
face. The action startled him. 

“He was here last night?” she said quickly. “You saw 
him. You, as a student of human nature, could surely 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE llERSCHEL. 


59 


read his character. After seeing him and looking into his 
eyes, do yon believe him guilty?” 

Treadwell lowered his eyes. The question went to his 
heart. At last, his gaze upon her again, he said : 

“You have asked me a question. I will answer it hon- 
estly. No. I do not believe him guilty.” 

A faint smile of triumph curved the beautiful lips. 

“Even in the face of his confession?” she persisted. 

“Even in the face of his confession,” he repeated. 

She sprang to her feet. 

“And you were convinced of this. Seeing him but 
once, knowing him but a few minutes, armed with proof 
that would hang him if brought before a jury, and you 
think it strange that I, who have known him for years, 
who have had evidence of his noble heart and generous 
disposition, should proclaim in convincing, positive tones 
his innocence?” 

She stood before him, looking him through and 
through with her wonderful eyes. He bowed his head in 
thought. 

“I have not as yet stated my errand,” she continued, 
waiting a moment for him to reply. “I have taken up 
much of your time and have only succeeded in arousing 
suspicion in your mind. Ah, I know it. You need not 
deny it. Your action and tone tell it to me plainer than 
words. Dismiss that suspicion. It is unjust. Remember! 
You are a gentleman. Your kindly face tells me that you 
are just and true. I am but a woman, a woman who has 
suffered and caused suffering. I rely upon you to assist 
me in saving the life of a man who blindly seeks to throw 
away the precious boon. You can do it.” 

She paused as if for breath. Her words had gone to his 
heart. 


60 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


‘'What do you seek to do?'’ he asked. 

“To save Henry Allen from the scaffold,” she replied. 

He looked her in the face. 

“I have already sworn to do that,” he said, slowly, “and 
more, I have registered an oath to bring the guilty one to 
- justice.” 

A faint shudder convulsed her. 

“And do you rely upon that to prove the innocence of 
the self-accused man?” she asked. 

“I do.” 

Her features grew hard. 

“Then I cannot look to you for assistance,” she said. 

“What do you mean?” seizing her by the wrist. 

“That you will never find the guilty one. Hear me, 
Mr. Treadwell! There is but one way by which Henry 
Allen can be saved. Do not ask me to explain my myste- 
rious words if such they seem to you. I cannot make them 
plainer. Let it suffice that you and I believe this man 
innocent, and save him in spite of himself. While you 
are seeking the murderer this man will be placed on trial, 
and from the evidence given, convicted. He will not say 
one word to clear himself. He has gone to prison volun- 
tarily. He wants to die. He must not die. We must save 
him.” 

He released her from the iron grip he had fastened upon 
her wrist, unconsciously. The last words of the man came 
to him: “If you are my friend, let me die,” and now this 
woman repeated the words, asserted that he wished to die. 
What mystery was here? What could it mean? The feel- 
ing of suspicion that had formed in his mind against the 
woman returned with increased force, but he must not let 
her see it; he must sound her, force from her in some way 
the knowledge she possessed. Yes, he would free Henry 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


61 


Allen, but by proving that he did not murder Roger De- 
veaux, and the only way to prove that was to find out who 
did. In a cold, hard voice, which he could not force into 
kindness, he said : 

“I have been considering your words and actions, which, 
you must admit, are strange, and justify me in my sus- 
picions, which you have so closely read. In order to as- 
sist you, I must first know your plan. If I agree to help 
you I will do* all in my power to forward your scheme. If 
I do not agree I shall keep your words locked in my 
breast. No one shall know of your visit here — no one 
have the faintest suspicion that I have ever met you, no 
matter where and when we next meet. I pledge you my 
word of honor to this, and even detective officers have 
honor. Now tell me your plan.” 


62 


CONFESSIONS OF LORRAINE llERSCHEL. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

A STARTLING PROPOSITION AND WHAT FOLLOWED. 

The woman seized the detective’s hand. 

‘T know I can trust you,” she cried, eagerly. “I have 
not been mistaken in my estimation of your character. 
Before I unfold to you my plan (and believe me it is the 
only one that can prove successful) shall I tell you why I 
came here to you?” 

‘Tf you choose.” 

“I will. When I read in the evening edition of the Sun 
that you had gone to the trouble of correcting an ac- 
count which gave you much credit as an officer and sub- 
stituted one that gave you no credit whatever, when I 
saw that you willingly renounced glory for truth, I con- 
cluded that you were a just man, and a just man is ever 
true. I felt then that I could trust you, although I was 
not sure that I could prevail upon you to assist me.” 

The officer bowed. 

“Now for my plan. We must remove Henry Allen from 
the prison where he is now confined.” 

This startling proposition caused our friend to give 
utterance to a gasp of astonishment. 

“Assist him to escape?” he cried. 

“No ; not that. He would not willingly leave that prison 
to which he has' voluntarily gone. He would not step one 
foot outside its walls, even if the doors were thrown open.” 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 63 

“What do you mean, then?” staring at her in amaze- 
ment. 

“We must remove him against his will, without his 
knowledge.” 

His brows contracted impatiently. 

“What you propose is impossible,” he said. 

“No; it is possible, but difficult to carry out. I under- 
stand the difficulties, but can overcome them with your 
assistance.” 

“Will you kindly enlighten me? Believe me. I shall 
feel pleased to know 'how you propose to take a man from 
a prison cell without his knowledge, not to mention the 
fact that there are other slight obstacles, such as turn- 
keys, guards, and so on. Then again, the prison walls are 
thick.”. 

He spoke sarcastically; she noticed it. 

“I have thought of all these things and provided for 
them,” she said, her bright eyes upon his face. “You seem 
to doubt me?” 

“I do not think that strange,” he replied, smiling in 
spite of himself. 

“You do not think I would suggest this thing unless 
there was a prospect of carrying it out,” she hastened to 
say. “I will admit it is not usual; the plan is a daring one, 
but it can be made successful.” 

“How?” feeling slightly nettled at her persistence. 

“Do you know the location of Henry Allen’s cell?” 
earnestly. 

“I do not.” 

“I do. I have investigated so far. I have been to the 
prison, ostensibly to visit the institution, but really to as- 
certain the exact location of his cell.” 

“Well?” 


64 


CO.NFESSION OF LOKKAINE llEKSCHEL. 


“He is in cell 92, in the rear of the prison. His window 
overlooks the street which runs along back of the prison 
and is a wide one.” 

“The street?” 

“No; the window. There is no wall at the back of the 
prison.” 

“I know that,” becoming interested. 

“My plan is to gain admittance to Henry Allen’s cell, 
administer an anaesthetic, cut away the bars and netting 
that secure the window, then lower his insensible body 
through the aperture to the street. A close carriage, a 
swift horse and the deed is done.” 

A feeling of admiration for this daring woman came to 
the mind of the detective. The scheme was practicable, 
but dangerous. 

“Your plan is a daring one,” he said. 

“But not impossible to carry out?” she cried eagerly. 

He considered a moment. 

“No,” he replied slowly, then, his eyes fixed upon her 
face: “I will admit that all you have proposed might be 
carried out, but there is one thing you have not men- 
tioned. If Henry Allen gave himself up once, would he 
not do SO' again, upon returning to consciousness?” 

A peculiar smile came to the woman's lips. 

“No,” she said. “I have taken everything into con- 
sideration.” 

“You could keep him out of prison if you succeeded 
in getting him out?’’ 

“I could keep him from returning voluntarily.” 

“How?” 

She looked at him appealingly. 

“Do not ask me to explain,’’ she murmured. “Believe 
me, I cannot go farther.” 


CONFESSION OF LOKKAINE HERSCHEL. 


65 


He frowned slightly. 

“I must confess myself puzzled,” he said. “I take from 
your words that once out of prison (where he has willingly 
gone) you can, by the exercise of some power, restrain 
him from returning. If you have that power, why can you 
not, by visiting him in his prison cell, prevail upon him to 
tell the truth and free himself without' all this trouble?” 

She turned from him, a weary sigh welling up from her 
heart. In a suppressed tone she said: 

“Your reasoning, Mr. Treadwell, although simple 
enough to your mind, is that of a man who does not know. 
If Henry Allen could have spoken the truth, do you sup- 
pose he would have gone to prison at all? Would he be 
there now? I have given you the only way by which he 
can be saved. Believe me, it is so. Will you help me?” 

He saw that it was useless to press her upon this sub- 
ject; so, adopting another tack, he said: 

“One thing more. I will refrain from touching upon 
this point that appears to cause you pain, but there is 
one other and the most serious of the many obstacles in 
the path of the successful fulfillment of your ingenious 
scheme. The fact that Henry Allen was no longer in con- 
finement would be known in a short time, and the blood 
hounds of the law would be let loose upon his track. He 
would be recaptured and returned to the prison. Have 
you thought of that?” 

“Naturally,” she replied, wearily; “but if you assist me 
in carrying out the first part of my plan you could surely 
render me aid in that particular.” 

“How?” 

“As one of the keenest detectives upon the force, you 
would doubtless be put upon the case. It would be a com- 
paratively easy matter to follow a wrong clew for a few 


66 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


days. Give me one week, and I can defy your entire po- 
lice force.’’ 

Her tone bespoke conviction and determination. 

“And you ask me to do this?” he said, reproachfully. 
“Do you remember my words of a short time since: 
‘Even a detective has honor?’ ” 

She flushed slightly. 

“The life of an innocent man should appeal to your 
sense of honor,” she replied. 

“You are strangely inconsistent,” he cried, somewhat 
peevishly. “You corned to me, an officer of the law, sworn 
to do my duty, and ask me to assist in an act in open vio- 
lation of my oath and honor. You depend upon that 
same honor to keep your secret; you refuse to take me 
into your confidence, and expect me to act blindly, having 
full faith in you — an entire stranger, whose object even 
in carrying out this unparalleled act of daring is unknown 
to me. Consider, is it not asking too much?” 

Tears came to the soft eyes. 

“Your words paih me, Mr. Treadwell. They are severe, 
although probably not meant to be so. I admit the truth 
of them, however. It is asking too much. To a man in 
your position the discovery of such an act on your part 
would mean disgrace and, perhaps, punishment. I have 
considered all this. One thing, however, I have not told 
you. I have reserved it for the last. Pray heaven it may 
influence you, even to forgetting your oath of office.” 

“I am waiting.” 

“By releasing Henry Allen you will get at the truth of 
the death of Roger Deveaux !” 

He gave utterance to a cry of satisfaction. 

“Then you admit that you know something about this 
affair?” making one step toward her. She drew back, 
shrinking from him. 


CONFESSION OF LOKKAINE UEliSCHEL. 


67 


“I did not say so,” she murmured in a frightened tone. 

“Your words, your actions say so,” he went on rapidly. 
“A short time since you said in answer to my question, 
‘Can you prove the innocence of Henry Allen?’ ‘I cannot.’ 
Now you say that if tlie man is released from prison that 
the true facts will be made known. Who will reveal them? 
Surely not Henry Allen. He has gone to prison — taken 
upon himself the crime to conceal them. I believe this. 
You know it. How, then, can the true facts be shown? 
Who will state them — you? If so, you have lied to me. 
You do know who killed Roger Deveaux.” 

She fell from the chair upon her knees before him, sob- 
bing, trembling, words failing her in her torrent of tears. 

They affected the stern man not one particle. He looked 
upon them as tears of fear, not of sorrow, nor contrition. 
Rapidly he revolved the facts of the case in his mind. 
Standing over her, the gas shining upon his stern-set face, 
the . bright flood reflecting the jet-black radiance of the 
woman’s beautiful hair, there passed in review before his 
mind's eye all that had come to his knowledge. An inno- 
cent man (as he believed him to be, as the woman claimed) 
had given himself up to justice as an assassin. Why had 
he done this? To shield another? No other reason could 
he now assign for the strange action. But who? Like a 
thunderbolt from on high came the answer. This woman 
before him ! He almost staggered as this came to him in 
a flood of overpowering conviction. His mind, now busy, 
skilled in forming theories, went back to the testimony 
given at the inquest by the saloon-keeper, the words of 
Alfred Seabrooke. Henry Allen had sent money to a 
woman, this woman presumably his mistress. All men 
are human, all men have passion. Why not Henry Allen? 
The friend and companion, Roger Deveaux, knew of this 


68 


CONFESSION OF LOKHAINE IIERSCilEL. 


fact; he had been heard to rate his companion for this ex- 
travagance; they had quarreled on this score. It was the 
only point of difference between them. The woman pos- 
sibly knew of this, was aware of the dislike or aversion 
Roger Deveaux felt for her, feared that he might in time 
separate her lover from herself. Through this blind man 
she might lose her lover. In her desperation she resolved to 
put this enemy oul^ of her path, silence his tongue forever. 
Fertile in schemes (she had proven it), she found a way 
to enter the hotel unperceived. It could easily be accom- 
plished. Between the hours of five and seven there was 
no clerk in the office. So she could easily have entered 
without being seen. She made her way to the room — 
room 47 — and committed the deed. The corpse had been 
found lying near the bed. She had found him sleeping, 
therefore an easy victim. She had then rolled him from 
the bed, and moved the bedstead, so as to hide her crime. 
The noise occasioned by the falling body had aroused 
Allen, also sleeping, and he had found the woman he 
loved, the bloody razor in her hand, the guilty murderess 
of his friend. Through love for her he had given him- 
self up to shield her from the inevitable results which 
must follow. 

A divine love for an unworthy creature. 

His companion dead, there was nothing left for him 
to live for, and so he craved death, to save her and end a 
life which was now blank and profitless. It must be true. 
All pointed to the woman as the guilty one in his rapidly 
formed theory. Then again came to him' the strange ac- 
tions of the girl Rachel; nervous, agitated, persisting in 
a pretence of ignorance, which he felt assured was as- 
sumed. She must know something of this and was 
probably attempting to shield this woman. 


CONFESSION OE LORRAINE IIERSGHEL. 


But why should she try to shield her, an entire stranger? 
Perhaps she was not a stranger. The former life of the girl 
was shrouded in mystery — mystery as dense as the foul 
crime itself. Perhaps she had known her, possibly had 
assisted in the crime! Yes, it all seemed plain, and now 
the woman, overcome with remorse, had determined to 
save her lover, if such could be done without criminating 
herself. Relying upon her speaking eyes, raven locks, and 
tears to move him, she had determined upon a bold step. 
She would make of him a tool to work out her plan. He, 
a detective, a man of perspicuity and intelligence! A 
bitter smile came to his lips as this thought came to him. 
He could have lauglied in contempt and derision. Of 
course, she could not speak. She would condemn herself 
by so doing. 

Her lover once out of prison, she could keep him in- 
sensible until far from the possibility of immediate pursuit, 
and could then laugh at the police force of Baltimore and 
himself. She had said as much. 

But he would thwart her. She was in his power. Be- 
fore the light of another day she would be behind prison 
bars ! 

But a change came over theieven tenor of his thoughts. 
The man Allen had confessed to this murder. He was al- 
ready in durance, awaiting trial. Even by arresting the 
woman he doubted if he could be brought to tell the 
truth. But might not she, seeing that it was hopeless to ex- 
pect to free her lover by any other means, speak out and 
tell all? It might be, but to the mind of the detective 
seemed highly improbable. Henry Allen would surely 
hang, unless he, Daniel Treadwell, could prove his new 
found theory to be correct — prove beyond doubt that this 
woman was the guilty one. This could be the more read- 


70 


CONFESSION OF LOKRAINE HERSCliEL. 


ily accomplished with the woman at liberty, under his 
constant surveillance. He could watch her closely, find 
out if there was anything beUveen Rachel Adler and her- 
self. No; he would not arrest her. She should go free. 
But from that hour he would be upon her track, her every 
action should be known to him. 

For fully five minutes he had been occupied with his 
thoughts. Now that he had resolved upon a course of 
action, he fixed his eyes upon the woman and found that 
she had risen to her feet and was watching him. 

“Then you will not assist me?” she asked faintly, in a 
low, frightened tone. 

“I hardly expected that question from you, after what 
has passed,” he replied in a hard, cold voice, his eyes fixed 
sternly upon her face. 

She shrank from him, a hopeless look of despair in her 
eyes. 

“Then I cannot appeal to you?” 

He turned from her, making two strides toward the 
door, then returning. 

“Appeal to your conscience, madam!” he cried. “You 
ask me to assist you at the sacrifice of honor and 
integrity, when, by telling the truth, revealing what you 
know, you can accomplish the result — tliat of setting this 
man at liberty, free from the stain of a hideous crime.” 

She clasped her hands in anguish, seemed about to 
speak, but checked herself and then began slowly to se- 
cure the disfiguring but concealing veil. 

Suddenly she burst forth, her words rapid and intense, 
thrilling him in spite of himself. 

“You ask me to sp^eak. I have told you I cannot. I 
have spoken truly. You ask me in contempt, doubt and 
unbelief, your mind burdened with suspicion. Why? Be- 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


71 


cause I wish to save the life of Henry Allen! It is not 
alone to save him from the gallows that I came here to 
beseech your aid. No, not that; but to save his life. Dis- 
grace kills as surely as the hangman’s noose, and the 
truth spoken by me, made known to the world and pro- 
claimed throughout the land, although it would save this 
man from the gallows, would surely end his life. I can- 
not say more. I have appealed to you. You have refused 
me. Be it so! I have tried and failed, but I shall not give 
up,” the words uttered fiercely. “I shall save him yet and 
the secret shall never be known.” 

He smiled incredulously. 

“You forget that I am a detective officer,” he said mean- 
ingly. 

She had made a few steps toward the door. Hearing his 
words, she turned, the bright light of defiance in her eyes. 

“I have not forgotten anything,” she almost hissed. 
“Mr. Daniel Treadwell, I defy you to discover anything 
or thwart my plans.” 

He recoiled slightly. 

“You have forgotten one thing,” he retorted harshly. “I 
know your plans. You have given me cause to suspect 
you.” 

She smiled contemptuously, but replied quietly, a hard, 
metallic ring in her voice: 

“I have not forgotten your words twice repeated,” she 
said, and then mockingly: “Even a detective has honor.” 

The door opened and sfhe was gone. 


72 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


CHAPTER IX. 

TREADWELL REVISITS BROWN’S HOTEL. 

For an instant he stood dazed, his own words thrown 
back at him, her sudden exit, depriving him of the power 
to act for the moment; then, seizing his hat, which lay 
upon the table, he sprang to the door and down the stairs, 
in eager pursuit, determined to track ‘her to her place of 
abode, realizing that he had found a foeman worthy of 
his steel. 

“She is a clever one,” he muttered, closing the hall door, 
“quick wited, determined and fertile of resource. By gad, 
how she glared upon me when uttering her words of defi- 
ance!” 

Reaching the street he looked rapidly in each direction, 
up and down Broadway, but no female figure met his gaze. 
She had disappeared from sight. With hurried footsteps 
he made his way to the corner of Baltimore street, again 
to find himself baffled. A few pedestrians were passing 
cither way, but among them no females. 

She must have made rapid progress thus to disappear in 
so short a space of time. 

Glancing across the street, he saw the faint glitter of a 
policeman’s badge in the light of the street lamp, 

“It is Maloney, the patrolman on this beat,” he mut- 
tered. “Per'haps he has seen her.” 

With a faint hope that such might be the case he hur- 


COXFESSIOX OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


78 


ried to the spot wiiere the officer was standing, idly swing- 
ing his night stick. 

“Affi is it you, Mr. Treadwell?^’ the Irish policeman ex- 
claimed as our friend reached his side. 

“Have you seen a woman, closely veiled, pass this 
point during the last ten minutes?’^ he eagerly inquired, 
without preamble. 

“Durin’ the last tin minutes?” repeated Maloney, staring 
at the lamp post. “I don’t think I have, Mr. Treadwell, 
nor in the last twinty minutes ather. Pve bin here that 
long waitin’ for the sargent.” 

“You are sure?” impressively. 

“Sure an’ I am. There ain’t bin no woman pass me at 
all. Lave me alone fer watchin’ out fer the famales, Mr. 
Treadwell,” with a sly wink. 

Baffled and chagrined, the detective turned away. The 
woman had successfully eluded him. 

Where could she have gone? Surely not down Broad- 
way, or he would have seen her. She could not have taken 
a carriage; he would have heard the sound of the wheels. 
Again he muttered : “She is a clever one,” and recrossed 
the street. The clock in a neighboring church steeple 
chimed the hour of nine as he reached the opposite side. 

“Nine o’clock!” he cried involuntarily. “I had no idea 
it was so late, and now that I come to think of it, I have 
had no supper. By gad, I never thought of it! Now, 
what is the best thing to do? This clever woman has man- 
aged to throw the dust completely in my eyes. I have not 
the slightest idea where she can have gone. I am hungry. 
Shall I attempt to trace her or go get something to eat? 
I guess the eating had better be attended to first, then the 
woman. A man can think better on a full stomach.” 

He turned and walked along Broadway to a restaurant 


U CONFESSION OF LOKKAINE HEKSCHEL. 

two blocks down. Giving his order for supper, he leaned 
back in his chair to think. Suddenly he sprang to his 
feet. A startling thought had entered his mind. 

“Why did not that enter my mind before?” he growled, 
censuring himself. “The woman’s disappearance can be 
easily explained. Thinking that^ I would immediately fol- 
low her, she, possessed of more common sense than I, 
took refuge in a doorway near by, and while I was ques- 
tioning Maloney, she very quietly and easily slipped away. 
I must be losing my senses,” resuming his seat. “No use 
going back to investigate now. She wouldn't be such a 
fool as to stay there an hour waiting for me to return and 
track her. I have made some of the most idiotic breaks 
during the past twenty-four hours; I could kick myself.” 

The meal he had ordered was at that moment placed be- 
fore him. He ate slowly, reviewing his new found theory, 
in vVhich the woman figured as the guilty one; while he 
did so, searching for the weak points. One point he had 
not settled to his entire satisfaction, and that was what 
had become of the money delivered to Roger Deveaux 
from the firm in Owensboro, the express envelope which 
had been found with the razor clearly indicating that it 
had been taken by some one, and that one had bloody 
fingers, as the stains upon the crumpled paper plainly 
proved. 

“The first idea that Henry Allen killed his friend for 
such a paltry sum as $2,500 I now see to be ridiculous in 
the extreme,” he pondered. “I doubt very much whether 
any intelligent jury would believe that after once looking 
upon the face of the man. Of course, that idea was the 
first one. The money was known to have been delivered 
and was not found in the room when carefully searched. 
The envelope gave silent evidence of the fact that the sum 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


75 


had been taken from it. Now, who took it? The 
woman? I can’t seem to see my way clear in that direc- 
tion. From my estimation of this woman’s character I 
believe her capable of committing murder, but not for 
money. No! no! She is not one of that kind. She would 
wade through rivers of blood for love’s sweet sake, but 
not for money. Yet she must have needed it. Allen fre- 
quently sent her money, providing, of course, that this is 
the woman Allen ran the risk of displeasing his friend, to 
furnish with the needful. She must be. What other 
woman would so interest herself in him? She said she 
had known him for years, was well acquainted with his 
noble character and tender heart. Of course, she must 
be the woman. But did she take the money? Possibly. 
Seeing the envelope, with the money inside, she removed 
it, not for its value, but to make it appear that robbery 
had been the object. It might be that. If so, her reason- 
ing was correct, for that was the first impression created. 
Any one would think that, unless, after careful considera- 
tion, they would see the utter fallacy of such an idea, as, 
Deveaux being blind, it would have, been a comparatively 
easy matter to rob him without his knowledge, unless he 
kept the money upon his person, and even then a strong, 
determined man, coming upon him unawares, could surely 
have overpowered him and have taken the sum without 
resorting to murder. If the friend and companion Allen 
had designed such an act he could have done it while the 
other slept. No! The crime was not committed for the 
contents of that express package, that is sure. I must try 
to find that money. Whoever has that knows something 
about this affair, and it may be this woman, who I be- 
lieve guilty, if not of the actual crime, at least of plotting 
for the life of this man. She might have hired an assassin 


76 


CONFESSION OF , LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


and paid him with the murdered man’s money ! But how 
could she have learned that this sum was delivered to him 
this particular day? Again the girl Rachel Adler comes to 
my mind as an accomplice. She might have known it, and 
informed the woman. Now that I come to think of it, 
there is a weak point in m‘y theory. It hardly seems pos- 
sible that this woman could have overpowered a powerful 
man like Roger Deveaux, unless she found him sleeping. 
She could then have easily committed the deed.” His 
brows knit in perplexed thought, the knife and fork 
dropped from his hands with a clatter, his eyes became 
fixed upon the wall opposite. 'The hired assassin idea also 
seems somewhat improbable, for, if Henry Allen, waking 
from his slumber, had seen a man in the room and his 
friend dead before him, he would have surely prevented 
the escape of such a man. Then again, he surely would 
not give himself up to shield a hired assassin. Of course, 
the deed could have been done, and the man gone before 
Allen awoke. Then, seeing the woman in the room alone, 
he might have thought her guilty, and so acted as he has 
done. That looks reasonable. The woman knows that he 
thinks her guilty. She fears to tell the truth, thinking, and 
rightly, too, that if the lover finds her guilty of plotting 
the murder, he, released from prison, would cast her off. 
She does not wish to lose him. She may not be guilty of 
the actual crime, but then again she is just as guilty if she 
planned it. I wish I could settle this matter to my own 
satisfaction. It grows deeper and deeper the more I think 
of it.” 

In a mechanical way he took up the knife and fork and 
silently finished his meal. Paying the amount due, he left 
the restaurant. Once upon the street again, his brain re- 
sumed its busy work. 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


77 


“I cannot sleep to-night until I gain further knowledge 
concerning this affair/’ he muttered. ‘‘Let me see. First 
I will try to learn if Rachel Adler could have in any way 
known of the delivery of the money package. I would 
like to study her a little bit more. I will go to Brown’s 
Hotel and question her again.” Looking at his watch, he 
found the hour nearly ten o’clock. 

“Rather late,” he observed, walking briskly along. 
“But I shall probably have no difficulty in gaining my 
point. These hotels do not close early and the girl will 
doubtless be found awake.” 

In twenty minutes Treadwell entered the office of the 
hotel. He found it deserted, with the one exception of 
the night clerk, a middle-aged, sleepy-looking individual, 
with a bald head and wrinkled face. Years of night work 
had left their indelible trace upon his prematurely aged 
countenance. 

“I would like to see Mr. Seabrooke,” began Treadwell. 

A look of preternatural solemnity came to the eyes of 
the wrinkled one. 

“Mr. Seabrooke cannot be seen,” he said, his voice in his 
throat. 

“Is he in the house?” 

“He is in the house.” 

“Then he will see me. I am Treadwell, the detective.” 

“It matters not, Mr. Treadwell. Mr. Seabrooke has 
given positive orders not to be awakened until the hour 
of five a. m.” 

“But see here. If you were to go to him and tell him 
that I wish to see him he will not refuse, depend on it.” 

“I cannot disobey orders,” mumbled the antiquated. 

The detective mentally cursed this strict adherent to rule 
and instruction. 


78 


CONFESSION OF LOKRAINE HEPtSCHEL. 


'‘You say you are to call him at five?” he asked suddenly, 
an idea occurring to him. 

“At five,” came the response. 

“I understood that Mr. Seabrooke usually slept until 
seven.” 

“That has been his custom.” 

“Why has he changed it?” 

The sleepy looking individual looked annoyed. 

“The sudden death of 47 has probably had something 
to do with it,” he snapped. 

“Oh, the murder of Roger Deveaux?” 

“Murder, then, if you will have it so. I prefer the other 
term,” and the night clerk turned to a ponderous ledger, 
which lay upon the desk at his side, and began slowly to 
run up a long column of figures. 

“So,” muttered Treadwell; “Seabrooke has an idea that 
it would be better to have the office more carefully 
watched.” Then to the man : “I don’t wish to annoy you, 
my friend, but can you tell me whether it will be a possible 
thing to see Miss Rachel Adler to-night?” 

The clerk turned his faded eyes upon him. 

“Miss Rachel Adler, and who may she be?” he inquired. 

Treadwell looked annoyed and answered impatiently: 
“The chambermaid on the third floor.” 

A look of horror came to the bleared eyes of the other. 

“See a chambermaid at this hour? No, young man! 
Such a proceeding would be highly improper and in di- 
rect opposition to the rules of our establishment.” 

“Damn your establishment!” growled the detective. 
“See here. I have come here on business. I want to see 
Mr. Seabrooke. You give me the number of his room, and 
I’ll take upon myself the responsibility of arousing him.” 

The bald one drew back in mild dismay. He could 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


79 


scarcely control his voice sufficiently to speak. Finally he 
gasped out: 

“Such a proceeding would be highly improper, not to 
mention the rage of Mr. Seabrooke, which would surely 
descend upon my head.’^ 

“It would be a sad thing for your head if it descended 
with much velocity,” observed Treadwell. “There is so 
little to break the descent. But come, what is the number? 
If you don’t choose to inform me. I’ll rap on every door in 
the house until I find the right one. Then think of the 
united and concentrated rage of the boarders descending, 
et cetera.” 

The man started back and clapped his hand to his bald 
pate, as if to shield it from harm. 

“Room 20,” he gasped. “On the first floor to the right.” 

Treadwell waited to hear no more, but, smiling at the 
peculiarities of the night clerk, hurried up the stair case. 
Room 20 was easily found, and a few good raps upon the 
panels of the door brought the occupant, Alfred Sea- 
brooke, arrayed in a long, white night gown, artistically 
embroidered in red, and a high, conical night cap, topped 
off with a tassel of the same hue as the embroidery, adorn- 
ing hi^ head. 

“Mr. Treadwell!” he gasped in astonishment. 

“Yes, it’s me. I want to see you, Seabrooke. You re- 
tire early.” 

“I got up earlier this morning,” moving aside and per- 
mitting the officer to enter the room. 

“Came to the conclusion that it was a bad idea to leave 
the office without a clerk between five and seven, eh?” 
said the detective, taking a chair. 

The day clerk and manager yawned prodigiously and 
replied: 


80 


COl^FESSION OF LORRAINE IIERSCHEL. 


“Well, yes. You see there is no tellin’ who might come 
in or go out durin’ them hours. We must look out that 
the boarders don’t skip.” 

“Or see that another murder is not committed.” 

“Well, yes, that’s about it.” 

“I want to ask you a question, Seabrooke. Who de- 
livered that money package to Mr. Deveaux?” 

The clerk, sitting upon the edge of the bed, considered 
a moment. 

“Why, the express agent himself,” he cried. “The book 
had to be signed, you know.” 

“Deveaux could not sign it; he was blind.” 

“I never thought of that. Let me see who did sign 
that book,” his head thrown back, his peaked chin thrown 
forward. “Oh, yes. Why, Rachel Adler signed it. I re- 
member the expressman mentioned it.” 

A cry of satisfaction from the officer. 

“You are sure of this?” he interrogated. 

“Yes, now that I am awake and can think. I’m sure of 
it. I remember I rang for Rachel to show the agent to the 
room, and she signed the book because Mr. Allen was not 
there at the time.” 

“Can I see this girl Rachel?” 

“Not very well, unless you know where she is.” 

Treadwell sprang to his feet. 

“What do you mean by that?” he cried. 

“She left my house this mornin’.” 

A feeling of disappointment and anger swept over the 
detective. 

“Didn’t I instruct you to watch her?” he demanded. 

“I believe you did,” slowly responded Seabrooke, “but 
I can’t make people do just as I want ’em to. The gal 
wasn’t under arrest and I couldn’t very well keep her from 
goin’ if sh6 wanted to quit.” 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


81 


“Have you any idea where she went?” impatiently pac- 
ing the floor. 

“Not the slightest.” 

“Why didn’t you follow her?” 

“That ain’t my business. I ain’t no detective, and, be- 
sides, I ain’t' got no time to go follerin’ people. I couldn’t 
very well do it, nohow. She went away in a carriage, and 
I ain’t much of a runner.” 

•‘A carriage!” The words burst from the detective. 
“Did she order a carriage? Come, man! tell me all you 
know about this.” 

“Well, I'll tell you all I know, and then I hope you’ll 
go, so I can git some sleep. I ain’t used ter bein’ knocked 
out of bed this way, and it don’t agree with me,” speaking 
in an injured tone. 

“Very well. I'll go just as soon as you tell me the facts.” 

“About ten o’clock this mornin’, while I was in the 
office makin’ out a few bills which come due to-day (and 
which I wanted to collect, as I don’t think it’s a good idea 
to let board bills run longer’n a week; they’re harder to 
collect, you know), a hired hack drove up to the door and 
the driver came in an’ told me somebody wanted to see 
me outside in the carriage. I thought it might be a new 
boarder. A good many of our boarders come in hacks, 
you know, an’ so I dropped my pen an’ went out. I found 
a lady in the hack.” 

“A lady!” cried Treadwell, interrupting him. 

“Yes; a real lady, if I ever saw one. ‘Have you a gal 
by the name of Rachel Adler workin’ fer you?’ she asked. 
I told her I had. ‘I want to see her,’ she said. Not wantin’ 
to disoblige a lady, although it’s dead agin our rules to 
have people visitin’ the servants durin’ business hours, 
I sent the porter to hunt up Rachel, and in a few minutes 


82 


CONFESSION OF LOKKAINE HERSCHEL. 


she came downstairs, lookin’ very white and sick. You 
know, she had a bad spell of it that night after the mur- 
der.” 

“Yes, I know she was. sick when I left; but go on.” 

“She went out to the carriage, and got inter it. She 
must ’a’ stayed there twenty minutes. The next thing 
I knowed she come inter the office and said in that gentle 
way of hers: ‘Mr. Seabrooke, I’m goin’ to leave you. I 
have got a better place offered me and I won’t have to 
work so hard.’ I felt kinder mad to have her quit me with- 
out notice — right in my busy time, too; but I didn’t say 
so. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘you kin go, if you want to.’ She 
nodded her head an’ went upstairs; the porter carried 
down her trunk (when she got it packed), the driver threw 
it up on his seat, and in a little while the gal come down 
an’ got in the carriage. It went down High street at a fast 
rate an’ that’s the last? I’ve seen of her.” 

For a moment the detective sat thinking over the man’s 
words, then he asked: 

“Do you remember the appearance of the woman?” 

“Well, yes. She looked about forty; good-lookin’, well 
dressed, an’ had black hair and eyes.” 

“With a scar upon the side of her face along one cheek?” 

“I believe she did, looked as if she’d been burnf at some 
time.” 

“The same.” 

The detective turned toward the door to hide the ex- 
pression in his eyes. The girl did know the woman, then, 
his visitor of that night. They were acquainted, and the 
girl was now with her. So far, so good. He had learned 
what he came to know, and more. 

“Thank you, Seabrooke,” he said, turning to the man. 
“I will not keep you from your bed any longer,” and he 
made a movement to turn the knob of the door. 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


88 


“You’re welcome,” replied Seabrooke; then adding: 
“I see you’ve got Allen in jail.” 

“Yes; he gave himself up last night.” 

“Owned up to, killin’ the other?” 

“Yes.” 

A thoughtful expression came to the man’s face. 

“Of course, that goes to prove he killed him,” he said, 
slowly; “but do you know, Mr. Treadwell, if he hadn’t 
owned up to it, I’d ’a’ never believed him the one that 
killed Mr. Deveaux.” 

“But there was the razor and the bloody envelope. You 
heard the testimony?” wishing to try the man. 

He slowly shook his head, the red tassel surmounting 
his night cap bobbing in a laughable manner. 

“Yes, I know all that,” he responded; “I know all that, 
but that razor, nor yet that envelope, don’t go to prove 
that Mr. Allen ever done such a thing as murder. Why, 
if you’d ’a’ known the man as well as I did, you’d never 
get such an idea in your head. What! Mr. Allen kill his 
poor blind friend for money? It looks too damned 
ridickerlous. But, then, he owned up to it an’ that settles 
it.” 

“What do you think of Rachel Adler’s statement?” 

“I think she’s a purty deep young woman.” 

“She declared she knew nothing of the facts of the case.” 

Seabrooke slowly crept into bed before replying. Com- 
posing himself finally, he said, with a prodigious yawn : 

“Well, she might ’a’ lied! Good-night, Mr. Treadwell.” 

“Good-night, Seabrooke,” 


84 


CONFESSION OF LOKKAINE HERSCHEL. 


CHAPTER X. 

TREADWELL MAKES A DISCOVERY. 

“She might ’a’-lied !’^ 

The words rang in Treadwell's ears as he slowly de- 
scended the stairs. She might 'aMied! No doubt of it to 
his mind now. Here was another, a man^ of no great per- 
ception, and he had conceived this idea. So the girl had 
left the house, and with the woman. He must find her, 
and by so doing discover the woman. 

‘T am getting forgetful,” he muttered, halting half way 
down the stair case. “I forgot to ask Seabrooke the num- 
ber of the hired hack. He said the hack was a hired one. 
How could I have overlooked it?” So saying he returned 
to number 20. 

Tap-tap, on the' door. 

“Who’s there?” came in a sleepy growl from within. 

“I beg pardon, Mr. Seabrooke; but I neglected to ask 
you one very important question. What was the number 
of the hack the girl went away in?” 

“I don’t know. Didn’t look. Ask the porter. Is that 
all?” 

“Yes, that is all.” 

Ask the porter. Would he be able to find that sable 
functionary? 

He found the wrinkled gentleman who filled the office of 
night clerk dozing over his voluminous ledger. 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


85 


“I will be obliged to trouble you again, sir,” said Tread- 
well, in a pleasant tone, arousing the dozing one. 

The sleepy individual leveled a glance at him that 
seemed to say: “You here again? How long must I 
be subjected to your annoyance?” But his tongue mum- 
bled out, in no very amiable tone: 

“Well, what is it?” 

“I should like to see the porter?” 

“The porter! First you annoy me; then it is the cham- 
bermaid you must see; then the day clerk must be awaken- 
ed from his slumbers ; now it is the porter. Shall I awaken 
all the domestics, or, perhaps, you would like to have me 
send to Annapolis for the proprietress? Come, don’t be 
bashful. If such is the case, say so. I haven’t anything 
else to do but attend to your wishes.” 

The tone, half sarcastic, half petulant, caused) our friend 
to smile. 

“Don’t lose your temper, my good sir,” he remarked. 
“Perhaps all this is annoying to you; but remember, it 
is in the interests of justice that I do it.” 

“Justice, eh? Well, what do you want of the porter?” 

“Simply to ask a question.” 

“More than one?” 

“I cannot say positively, but I think not.” 

Without further remark the clerk turned and entered 
the little private room back of the office (the room where 
the detective had held his first interview with Seabrooke), 
and could be heard trying to arouse a seemingly very 
sound sleeper. Sundry grunts and gasps informed the 
officer that the sleeping one was returning to conscious- 
ness and in a short time the wrinkled clerk reappeared, 
followed by the drowsy porter, who was rubbing his tired 
eyes, not yet quite awake. 


85 


CONFESSION OF LOERAINE HEKSCllEL. 


“It’s you, sah?” he muttered, seeing the detective. 

“Yes, I see you remember me. Do you remember the 
number of the hack that came for Rachel Adler this morn- 
ing?” 

“Don’t recumembah it, sah, but I kin tell ye in a minit,” 
diving down into the mysterious depths of a ragged coat. 
Presently he drew forth a torn and dirty memorandum 
book and began looking through its pages. 

“Number 414,” he said, finding what he was looking 
for. 

“You are sure that is the right number?” 

“Dead sure, sah.” 

“Why did you take down the number?” 

“Policy, sah. I takes ebery number wot comes in a 
funny way. Ain’t many hacks comes heah, and when dey 
does, I gits de number an’ plays it. I done won three dolla’s 
an’ a quatah on Mister Deveaux’s hack, sah, when he 
cum heah.” 

“You were fortunate,” taking down the number. “Here 
is half a dollar for you,” tendering the silver. 

The negro took it, his eyes wide open now, his capacious 
mouth literally stretched from ear to ear, in a grin of de- 
light. 

“Done knowed it would bring me luck,” he chuckled, 
stowing away the coin and returning to his interrupted 
slumbers. 

“Good night, sir; I will not trouble you further,” said 
Treadwell, bowing to the clerk and starting for the door. 

“You have given me more trouble and less pay than 
any one in the house,” replied that gentleman, signifi- 
cantly. 

The detective laughed. 

“I beg pardon,” he said, taking a half dollar from his 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


87 


pocket. “Will yoiCaccept this and with it my sincere apol- 
ogies for causing you the trouble?’^ offering the coin. 

The bald one took it, tested it with his teeth, and de- 
posited it in his pantaloons pocket, where it fell with a 
dull, dead sound, conveying to the detective’s mind the 
fact that it alone rested there. 

“Trouble is nothing when one is paid for it,” said the 
eccentric individual, with an air of preternatural wisdom. 
“Your apology, given with silver accompaniment, is ac- 
cepted, sir. Good-night.” Then turned to the ledger to 
soothe himself to rest. 

Laughng, the detective left the hotel. 

‘T am in luck,” he observed, heading toward Gay 
street. “It is rather late to hunt up hack 414, but I don’t 
feel a particle like sleep; in fact, what I have learned to- 
night has made me feel decidedly wakeful. Like the little 
boy on the night before Christmas, T can hardly wait till 
morning.’ So I will hunt up the important hack; per- 
chance before to-morrow's light I shall learn something 
more.” 

Hunting a numbered hack is not a difficult matter, as 
the numbers and names of the owners of all public ve- 
hicles are registered in the city clerk’s office, where the 
licenses for such are applied for; but at twelve o’clock at 
night it is not possible to obtain ingress to such records, 
and of this fact our friend was well aware. He relied upon 
finding the hack he sought by going to the several large 
stables, who made this particular branch of the livery 
business a specialty, and trusted to the good fortune that 
had attended him so far that night to bring about a suc- 
cessful issue. One of tl^ese stables was upon Gay street, 
not far from Holliday. To that one he went. Hack 414 
did not belong there. It did not take long to find that out. 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


So, engaging a carriage and a well posted driver, he started 
upon his round of all the principal stables. 

Three were visited without success, but the fourth one 
proved to be the one, fon upon inquiry the glad tidings 
came in the form of a gruff answer from the lips of a bare- 
armed and rubber-booted carriage washer. 

‘'Yes, No. 414 belongs here. What of it?’^ 

“Where is the proprietor 

“Home in bed, where I orter be.” 

“Who drove 414 to-day?” 

“Hornin’ or afternoon?” 

“Morning.” 

“Bill Hitchem.” 

“Is he about?” 

“He ain’t far away. What do you want of him?” 

Treadwell showed his badge. 

“Oh, ‘fly cop,’ hey? You’ll find Bill, pretty well loaded, 
in the saloon on the corner.” 

“Would you mind taking a drink yourself?” 

“Try me! Washin’ carriages is purty cold work, and 
a hot drink never comes amiss.” 

“I thought so. Here is a quarter. Go to the saloon 
and get your drink; bring Bill back with you.” 

“Yours truly,” taking the quarter and hurrying toward 
the saloon. 

In fifteen minutes he returned with “Bill” in tow, and 
there was no doubt in the mind of' the detective that “Bill” 
was “loaded;” so much so and so heavily, in fact, that he 
staggered and reeled under it. 

“He didn’t want to come,” remarked the carriage 
washer, depositing “Bill” upon a pile of blankets near; 
“but I persuaded him; I carried him.” 

“You have earned your quarter,” said Treadwell; then, 
approaching the intoxicated driver, he asked: 


COKFESSlOX OF LOKliAlXE llEKSCHEL. 


89 


“You drove a lady to Brownes hotel this morning about 
ten o’clock?’^ 

“Brown’sh shotel? Lesh shee. Think I did. Yesh — 
lady — black hair. Yesh. Brovvn’sh shotel.” 

“Another lady got in your hack there.” 

“Guessh sho — yesh — young woman,” dropping his chin 
on his breast. 

“Where did you drive them?” 

No response. The man was asleep. Shaking him by 
the shoulder, the officer aroused him from his drunken 
stupor. 

“Whash a mazzer?” he growled, looking up, a dazed 
look in his bleary eyes. 

“Where did you drive the woman and young lady from 
Brown’s hotel this morning?” 

A look, meant to be cunning, came to the drunkard’s 
face. 

“What’ll you give t’ know?” he gurgled. 

“Not one cent,” curtly -replied Treadwell. “But let me 
tell you what you’ll get, my friend, if you don’t answer my 
question — three months in the county jail. I am a de- 
tective officer, on the track of a criminal, and I come to 
you for information.” 

The driver looked helplessly at the carriage washer. 

“He’s a ‘fly cop,’ Bill; you’d better ‘squeal,’” advised 
that worthy, in a hoarse whisper. 

“Fly copsh! I’ll tell you, mishter. I drove ’em to 
Barnum’s shotel.” 

“Is this the truth?” sternly. 

“Honest, s’help me God !” with an air of drunken grav- 
ity and earnestness laughable to behold. 

“For your sake I hope so,” said Treadwell, restraining 
his laughter and returning to his hack. 


90 


CONFESSION OF LOKKAINE HEKSCHEL. 


“Here is a half dollar, my man,” to the carriage washer. 
“When Bill wakes up in the morning he will want a drink. 
Get him one and treat yourself.” 

“Pll do it, sir,” bowing, mentally adding, as Treadwell 
walked out of the stable: “A true gent, anyhow, even if 
he is a ‘fly cop.’ Then, going to Bill, he hustled him up 
from the blankets and put him to bed in an empty horse 
stall, upon a pile of straw not overly clean. 

Meanwhile the detective was being driven toward the 
celebrated hostelry, where he was well known. 

The night clerk, Mr. Bailey, was an intimate acquaint- 
ance, and to him Treadwell put the question if he knew of a 
woman answering the description given stopping there. 

“Why, yes,” replied Mr. Bailey. “You have described 
Mrs. Branscombe. She has been one of our guests for 
nearly three months.” 

Three months! Just the time Roger Deveaux and 
Henry Allen had been stopping at Brown’s hotel. 

“She brought a young girl here to-day,” continued 
Treadwell. 

“I can’t say as to that. I go to bed at nine. But stay. 
I guess you are right. Upton, the day clerk, mentioned 
something to that effect as I was going on duty to-night. 
Her niece, I believe, he said.” Then, turning to the open 
register: “Yes; see, here is the name, ‘Miss Rachel Brans- 
combe, with Mrs. Branscombe, room 34.’ ” 

“They occupy the same room?” 

“Yes; what’s in the wind. Tread?” 

“I am not at liberty to inform you, old man. You know 
my profession,” with a smile. 

“Secret, eh? Well, I won’t press you. Only, if it’s any- 
thing on the order of hotel thief I’d like you to give me a 
pointer.” 


CONFESSION OF LOKRAINE HERSCHEL. 


91 


“Nothing on that order, Bailey. Your Mrs. Brans- 
combe is not a thief.’’ 

“She seems very much a lady.’^ 

“There is no doubt of her being one.” 

A sigh of relief from the hotel man. 

“Can I be of any assistance to you?” he asked. 

Treadwell considered. 

“You might be,” he said at last. 

“In what way? You have only to speak the word, you 
know.” 

“Put me in the room adjoining theirs.” 

A rapid glance at the register and the clerk replied: 

“I can’t do that. The room — number 32 — is occupied. 
But stay,” looking over the call book. “I can put you in 
after four o’clock. There is a call down for 32 at four. 
Early train for Washington.” 

“That will do.” 

“The room won’t be made up.” 

“That don’t make any difference. Give me 32 at four, 
and I’ll be under everlasting obligations to you.” 

“All right.” 

A glance at the clock showed the hour to be 3 :30. So, 
lighting a cigar, Treadwell strolled out upon the balcony, 
which overlooked the street, and smoked until the city 
hall clock struck four. Waiting for fifteen minutes longer, 
he returned to the office. 

“You can go up,” said Bailey. 

“I won’t register,” remarked the detective, “and I 
might remind you that I don’t wish it known that I am 
in the house.” 

“Of course, I understand that.” 

The porter showed the detective to room 32, a large 
room upon the third floor, overlooking the street, and 
with a communicating door leading to room 34. 


92 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


“I am in luck,” he muttered, noting this ; then, remov- 
ing his shoes noiselessly, sat down to await developments. 

There was no transom over the door, and the key was 
in the lock on the other side; this Treadwell found upon 
investigation. 

‘They will probably not be stirring before six or seven,” 
he muttered, rising to his feet after his examination of the 
key hole. “Til catch a wink of sleep,” and, throwing him- 
self upon the bed, without removing his clothing, he soon 
drifted off into unconsciousness. 

The sun was shining in at the window, full upon his face, 
when he returned to life and action again. The sound of 
voices in the adjoining room gave evidence that the ladies 
had not left the apartment. He looked at his watch — 7 135. 

“Breakfast time,’’ he muttered, but with no desire to 
partake of that meal. 

Applying his ear to the key-hole, he tried to hear the 
conversation which was being carried on by his fair neigh- 
bors; but the door being thick and, the key filling the 
aperture, he could not distinguish words, although he 
thought he could recognize the voices. 

“No use trying to hear anything there,” he muttered, 
standing erect. “My only hope is that they will go down 
to breakfast and leave the room. It won’t take me long 
to get in there and look through things if they will give 
me a chance. But will the woman take the girl down with 
her? She’s clever, and may not run the risk; but she made 
no attempt to conceal the place she brought the girl to. 
She drove direct from Brown’s hotel here. She did not 
show much cleverness in that. But that was in the morn- 
ing, before she visited me. She did not see the necessity 
of concealment then. She probably had not read the 
papers, did not know that Allen had given himself up. She 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


93 


knew the girl had given her testimony against him; that 
was published in the evening papers of the previous day. 
So she went to the hotel and took the girl away so as to 
remove her from the possibility of further questioning. 
That is it. She will not take the girl down to breakfast 
with her. She will not run that risk. Very well. I’ll be 
obliged to resort to chloroform. I have some with me. 
I dislike using it, but ‘needs be where the devil drives,’ 
andj if Mrs. Branscombe leaves her niece in room 34 while 
she goes down to her breakfast, I shall be under the pain- 
ful necessity of rendering her unconscious and conse- 
quently docile. If things are as I strongly suspect, this 
lady will not remain long in Baltimore with her niece, so- 
called. I should not be one bit surprised if they were pack- 
ing up, getting things in readiness for a sudden start even 
now.” Again he applied his ear to the key-hole. The 
confused sounds from the other room justified his sus- 
picion. Even while he listened he heard the sound of a 
trunk lid being closed down. 

“I’m right,” he muttered. “I hope she’ll take that girl 
down with her. I’d like to look through that trunk before 
she locks it. There may be others, too.” 

With nerves strung to their highest tension, he listened. 
At last a grateful sound reached his ears. It was that of 
the door leading from the other room into the hall open- 
ing. A few seconds and he heard it close, then lock, and 
then footsteps sounded in the hall. Opening the door of 
his own room slightly, he saw the form of the woman who 
had visited him the night before going along the hall to- 
ward the stairs leading to the dining-hall. She was 
alone! 

A pang of disappointment struck his heart. 

“She has not taken the girl,” he muttered; then, taking 


94 


COXFE88iON OF LOLHiAlXE ilERSCIlEL. 


a deep, resolute breath, he silently transferred a vial of 
chloroform from a pocket case to the side pocket of his 
sack coat and placed his -handkerchief in the same re- 
ceptacle. 

“It must be done,^’ he muttered. Locking the door 
opening into the hall, he silently approached the other 
and fell upon his knees before it, his eye on a level with 
the key-hole. His movements, now quick and active, 
showed that he wished to improve every spare moment; 
each minute was precious. Drawing from his pocket a 
small instrument, something like a pair of tweezers, he 
inserted it carefully and silently into the key-hole, a quick 
turn of the hand and the key turned in the lock, the bolt 
shooting back with a clicking sound. To open the door 
was the work of an instant and Daniel Treadwell entered 
room 34. 


CONFESISlOiSr OF LOKKAINE HElittCHEL. 


% 


CHAPTER XL 

WHAT HE DISCOVERED. 

As the detective crossed the threshold a young girl, 
who had been sitting gazing mechanically out of the 
window, turned and sprang to her feet. 

^‘The detective !” she gasped, her eyes filled with terror, 
trembling in every limb. 

“The detective, Daniel Treadwell, Miss Rachel Adler,” 
he repeated, quickly. 

“What do you want?” she asked, in a dazed, frightened 
manner. 

“I have no time to explain now,” he said hurriedly. “I 
will tell you more when I have more time. Only, I must 
confess my surprise at seeing you here. I did not ex- 
pect it.” 

A lie, but put out to draw her on. She made no reply, 
only continued to stare at him. Without wasting any 
more time the man began his work of investigation. A 
trunk stood near the door, its lid down, but not locked. 
Toward this trunk the detective made a step. He had 
come to the conclusion that if the girl made no outcry he 
would not use the chloroform ; but as he stepped toward 
the trunk she sprang before him. 

“What are you going to do?” she demanded, her gray 
eyes blazing. 

“First I shall silence you,” he muttered, springing* upon 
her and seizing her wrists. A -quick blow on the pocket 


66 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


and the subtle odor of chloroform gave evidence that the 
vial had been broken. One faint scream went up from 
the girl, then a desperate struggle as the officer applied 
the saturated handkerchief to her nostrils. Gradually 



the writhing limbs became inert and powerless, the gray 
eyes lost their fire and closed, a deep sigh and the girl 
was helpless. Laying her tenderly and gently upon the 
bed, the officer turned to the trunk again. It was the only 


CONFESSION OF LOKKAINE HERSCHEL. 


97 


one in the room (the girPs trunk was not there, probably 
had not been brought up), and he gave vent to a sigh of 
relief as he realized his work would not be so difficult to 
perform. He raised the lid and began searching the tray 
— a woman^s trunk, the tray provided with many recep- 
tacles for letters, papers, bonnets, etc., etc., each of which 
Treadwell rapidly searched. He was looking for the 
stolen money, half expecting to find it, but in this he was 
disappointed. There was no money in the tray of the 
trunk ; no secret hiding place. Replacing the articles taken 
from the tray, he turned to the body of the trunk. Dresses, 
underwear, everything pertaining to a lady’s wardrobe, 
but no money. He impatiently stuffed the wearing apparel 
into the trunk and closed the lid. 

“Ah, the bed. I had nearly overlooked that,” he cried. 
In an instant he had torn the covering from the bed; mat- 
tress and pillows were carefully examined. Suddenly 
came a cry of satisfaction. Under the bolster he found a 
package, carefully sealed in clean manilla paper — a mod- 
erately bulky package, but not of money. 

Without stopping to break the seal, he tore off the 
paper and found a closely written manuscript before his 
eyes, a manuscript dated back three years and bearing 
these words at the top of the first page: 

“The confession of Lorraine Herschel!” 

Wondering who Lorraine Herschel could be, but com- 
ing to the conclusion that it must concern this woman, as 
it was so carefully sealed and placed under her head while 
sleeping, he thrust the manuscript beneath his coat and, 
after a quick examination of the bureau and dressing-case, 
left the room, the girl giving evidence by her labored 
breathing thatt before long she would return to conscious- 
ness. 


98 CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 

Relocking Ahe communicating door, Treadwell glanced 
rapidly over a few pages of the packet. A great cry of 
amazement escaped his lips as his eyes rested on some 
words written therein. 

“By gad, this beats anything I ever heard tell of/’ he 
murmured in astonishment. “I should say this did con- 
cern this woman, and the man as well. A fortunate find, 
and if I mistake not, will effectually interfere with Mrs. 
Branscombe’s sudden departure. She will not leave Balti- 
more until she recovers this, and that will not be until I 
have^ unraveled this mystery and solved the problem satis- 
factorily to myself.” 

Steps in the hall, approaching the door of room 34. 

“She is returning,” muttered Treadwell. 

The quick, firm tread passed his door, and paused be- 
fore the one adjoining. The sharp click of the key in 
the lock, then a muffled cry: 

“My God! who has done this?” he heard the words. 
Then a scream, and the heart-rending exclamation; 

“The packet! It is gone. All is lost. Disgrace! Ruin! 
Shame! Oh, God in heaven, who has done this?” 

He waited to hear no more, but tightly clasping his 
find to his breast, made his way down the staircase to the 
ladies’ entrance to the hotel, nor did he stop until he 
reached his lodgings. He had not as yet eaten breakfast; 
he had not thought of it. An overwhelming feeling of 
curiosity to become informed as to the secret the packet 
contained drove every other thought from his mind, and 
so, upon reaching his lodgings, he divested himself of 
coat and hat, and then locking the door opening upon 
the hall to insure himself against intrusion and conse- 
quent interruption, he spread the manuscript out upon 
the table before him and began the reading of it. 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


99 


BOOK II. 

THE CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 

CHAPTER XIL 

THE BEGINNING. 

January 4,. 1 8 — . 

For the first time in fourteen long years I take my pen 
to record the thought my brain dictates. 

For fourteen years I have been as one dead. True, I 
have eaten and slept, seen and touched, heard and thought, 
but my tongue has been silent. Its power to articulate has 
departed forever. I am dumb ! ' 

Better for me, perhaps, if that same all-wise God, who 
took from me the power of speech, had at the same mo- 
ment — the awful moment of my life — stricken me dead 
and lifeless. The years of anguish, of heart torture, of 
bitter sorrow and yearning for revenge, would have then 
been spared me, but He thought it best that I should live. 
No, not that — exist; and so through all these years I have 
suffered as, perhaps, no man ever suffered before; have car- 
ried in my bosom a heart, dully throbbing with life, but 
dead in feeling for my fellow man; alive only with the 
hope of vengeance. 

I at one time registered an oath before heaven that 
never again should any of my kind know my thoughts. 


100 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


I would be dead to the world, as all the world was dead to 
me. My sorrow, my bitterness against all living creatures, 
should be locked in my breast. Everlasting silence should 
be my plan in life, until (and the thought caused my blood 
to surge through my being like an overwhelming torrent 
of fire) I once again met her. She who caused all this. 
Woman — the curse of mankind. Yet, the greatest bless- 
ing, if such she chooses to be. 

Then, and not till then, should my brain reassert its 
power — then I would let loose the torrent of my repressed 
thoughts, and, like the pent up stream suddenly released 
from its barriers, carry desolation — death — in its surging, 
devastating course. 

God knows I had cause for this feeling. Was not she 
my curse? Did not she blast the happy hope of a life of 
peace and joy? She brought about all this. Silenced my 
tongue, turned my life current to gall and bitterness, my 
heart to stone. And yet — I loved her once. Loved? Nay, 
idolized her; forgot my Maker, and knelt before an idol of 
flesh; an idol, at last broken, crushed before my eyes, as 
was the golden calf before the Israelites by the angry 
hand of Moses. It was my punishment. 

But it is all changed now. The heart once crushed now 
beats with glad life; still sore, sometimes heavy, but the 
heart of a man again. I have found of all the living crea- 
tures of earth one whom I can love, one whom 
I can trust. A man! A man with a tender 
heart, whose ears cannot drink in the tones 
of my voice, as that is silenced, but whose noble face turn- 
ed upon me reflects the soul of a Christian, and whose 
low, sympathetic, soothing voice quells the angry spirit 
within me, and promises peace once more to a mind dis- 
eased. He cannot see me. He knows not whether I am 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


101 


young or old, repulsive or attractive. My white hair, the 
mark of sorrow, is not strange to him, as it has been to 
others — the cause of comment, of rude expressions of 
wonder. He is blind ! I am his eyes ; he my tongue, my 
heart, my life. He has, like the dove sent out by Noah, 
brought the green sprig from a world, so long submerged 
in the waters of unbelief, of eager desire for retaliation; 
has brought the gladsome tidings of new life, and so, be- 
fore consigning it with mj- bitter past to the grave of for- 
getfulness, which I have even now prepared, I will write 
my story, my life history, recalling each bright event of 
a happy existence, recording the black shadow that fell as 
a pall upon my heart, and blotted out the sunshine with its 
funereal blackness. 

Then I will forget! I have almost forgiven. All desire 
for vengeance has left me. God has made us as we are, 
born with passions that we cannot control. Perchance 
she was not to blame. I can say it now. “Vengeance is 
mine, saith the Lord,” and to His hands I consign her, 
blotting her from the pages of memory, casting her from 
me as I do the old life, beginning a new one, unmarked 
by the remembrances of a hideous drama, with the sun- 
shine of bright promise casting its effulgent rays upon my 
pathway! 


U02 


COJ^FESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


CHAPTER XIIL 

BROTHERS. 

We were half brothers, Ralph and I; I, ten years the 
eldest. My father (whose name I bear), Lorraine Herschel, 
died when I was little more than an infant. Three short 
years had passed o’er my head, years of which I know but 
little. I have no recollection of him, but his picture, hung 
over the mantel in the parlor, showed a man of handsome 
face and tender, loving eyes. “One of Nature’s noble- 
men,” my mother often said. And yet, in five years’ time, 
she had forgotten him, and taken to herself a second hus- 
band, Clifford Dean. 

I never liked Mr. Dean. He was cold, harsh, and stern, 
and I do not think he treated my mother kindly. From a 
rosy-faced, contented woman, she became thin, and a look 
of melancholy, so strange to me, came to her loving eyes, 
so I did not grieve when he was brought home a crushed, 
bleeding mass, killed in a railroad accident. I was at that 
time nearly ten years of age. 

Two months after the horrible death of my stepfather, 
my mother gave birth to my half brother, Mr. Dean’s 
child, whom she named Ralph, after one of my uncles, her 
brother. 

I remember feeling somewhat put out that another had 
come to share my mother’s love, but as the infant grew old- 
er, and developed from a puny, whining, fretful baby into 
a chubby-faced, bright-eyed boy, I became greatly attach- 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


103 


ed to him, and thought myself extremely fortunate that a 
playfellow had been provided for me. It was I who taught 
him to walk, I to whom he addressed his first lisping baby 
syllable, and of these things I felt divinely proud. 

What times we had ! What days of pleasure, romping in 
the new mown hay in harvest time, gathering cherries, ap- 
ples or nuts, in their seasons. He reached the age of 
five; I was fifteen. 

Then my dear mother died and we were alone in the 
world. I shall never forget the sorrow that filled my heart 
when the family physician, turning to me, as I stood by her 
bedside, said in a low, solemn tone: 

“Kiss your mother, Lorraine. It will be for the last time 
on earth.” 

I burst into boyish tears.. The thought that soon my 
darling parent would be but a lifeless corpse nearly drove 
me frantic with sorrow. 

I leaned over the precious form and pressed a kiss upon 
her lips. She opened her eyes, a dreamy, far off look in 
their faded depths. “Your baby brother Ralph. Lift him 
up so that I may kiss him,” she whispered faintly. I did as 
she asked. He (poor little fellow) could not quite under- 
stand it all. He was too young to realize the loss we were 
about to suffer. 

With her expiring strength she strained him to her 
bosom.' “My darling,” she murmured, kissing him; “my 
sweet baby.” Then, her breath failing fast, her eyelids be- 
ginning to flutter as the cold fingers of Death pressed them 
to, she turned to me and said: 

“Always — love — him — Lorraine. Keep him from evil.” 

“I will — I will,” I sobbed. 

Those were her last words. 

So died our mother. 


104 


CONFESSION OF LOKKAINE HERSCHEL. 


How often during those bitter years that followed have 
I thought of her words. I tried to do my duty, God knows, 
but mankind is weak, and the strongest sometimes go 
astray from the path of rectitude. 

We buried her in the village churchyard, and the day 
following the funeral went to live with an uncle, that 
brother, whose name my mother had given her youngest 
born, coming for us, and taking us with him to his home, 
many miles away from the spot where our mother lay 
sleeping her last sleep, beneath the shade of a black oak 
tree. 

Our uncle was unmarried, his household affairs being 
conducted by a widow whose husband had left her mourn- 
ing but a few years before. She was a good woman, but 
weak-minded, her whole soul centered in a bright and 
winning child, the only inheritance her husband had be- 
stowed upon her — a girl, Ethel by name. 

The widow’s name was Ethel Ronclere, the child’s the 
same. She was but five years of age when we came to 
live with our uncle, but a bright,, precocious child, and we 
two soon grew to love her with a brotherly affection. We 
called her sister, and I felt for her an elder brother’s love. 

She shared our boyish pleasures, and our secrets. We 
kept nothing hidden from each other, and happy — the 
years following blunting the keen edge of our sorrow over 
our loss — the days passed away. 

I was eighteen, my brother and Ethel eight, when my 
uncle, calling me to his library one day, said : 

“Lorraine, you are now of an age when it becomes nec- 
essary that you should begin to form some plans for the 
future. You have attended school here regularly, and your 
teacher tells me that you are in possession of all the knowl- 
edge that he can impart; that you should be sent to a high- 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


105 


er institution. It is my desire to do my duty toward you 
as my sister-s child, and so I have been in correspondence 
for some time past with the faculty of the college at New 
Brunswick, New Jersey — Rutgers College. I wish you 
to have a thorough, complete education, so that you will 
be prepared to combat with the busy world when called 
upon to do so. The term begins in September, and you 
will enter upon your collegiate course at that time. While 
there make the most of your opportunities. Thieves can 
rob you of wealth, but they cannot break into the treasure- 
house of the brain and deprive you of that which is stored 
there. Upon leaving college we will decide upon your 
future life. It may be that your mind will assist us in that, 
even while you are there. Think well of it, and what busi- 
ness or profession meets your choice I shall provide means 
to establish you in.” 

I thanked my kind uncle, and left the room. I found my 
brother and Ethel in the garden back of the house. I told 
them what he had said. 

The tears came to the eyes of both. “You are going 
away from us,” sobbed Ethel. Ralph clung to my hand. 

I soothed them, telling them it would only be for a short 
time; that it was' for my good; would make me a smart 
man, etc., and soon they dried their tears, and we strolled 
together through the fields hand in hand, I, although much 
their senior, feeling} every particle as much a child as they. 

Few young men of my age were as little posted in the 
ways of the world as I — I had never visited a large city; 
had never had any companion of my own age whom I 
cared to associate with. My brother and the girl, the only 
beings I really loved, not excepting my uncle, for whom I 
had a feeling of great respect, almost akin to awe, but not 
of love. 


106 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


And SO I enjoyed the childish pleasures we indulged 
in, and was happy and contented. Would that my happy 
life had ended there, among the green fields and flowers; 
then I would never have known the false world, of which 
I never dreamed then ; would have gone to meet my moth- 
er as pure and unsullied as when she pressed her dying 
lips upon my brow. 

September came, the days of childhood were over, and 
leaving the companions I so dearly loved, weeping child- 
ish tears at the thought of losing me, I accompanied my 
relative to the college, where the next four years of my 
life were to be spent 

“Work hard, my boy. Stick to your books, and avoid 
trifling, and you’ll make your mark in the world,” were my 
uncle’s parting words. God bless him, reserved and cold, 
his early life blasted by a woman’s faithlessness, but a no- 
ble man. Would there were more like him. I obeyed him. 
Although temptations strewed my path, alluring pros- 
pects of illicit pleasure held up before my mind’s eye, yet I 
shunned them all, and soon earned for myself the sobriquet 
of “The preacher” among my gay companions. But I did 
not heed their jeers. I was working and delving for the 
treasures of knowledge, and I secured them. At the expi- 
ration of four years I graduated with the highest honors, 
while some of my wild associates failed to secure the di- 
ploma for which they yearned, but were too careless and 
thoughtless, or, I might say, lazy to work for. Midnight 
rioting and dissipation and study do not agree, as many of 
my companions found to their dismay and chagrin. Dur- 
ing my collegiate course I had been home several times. 
Each time I met with a warm welcome, my brother and 
Ethel almost smothering me in kisses. How they loved 
me then. Ah, me ! A bitter pang reaches my heart, as I 


CONFESSION OF LOKRAINE HERSCHEL. 


107 


think of it all now. Why cannot we always remain chil- 
dren, in heart at least? 

I could see that Ethel was growing very beautiful. Her 
eyes, black as midnight, began to give evidence of a wom- 
an’s soul; her childish form showed signs of early and 
magnificent development. “A noble woman she will be,” 
I one day thought, my eyes upon her. 

My brother also grew in strength and beauty. He was 
ever a manly boy, and at the age of twelve looked fifteen, 
the very picture of health, his gray eyes glowing, his curly 
brown hair falling in ringlets to his collar. My uncle 
would not have his beautiful hair cut. “It would detract 
from his appearance,” he said, and so, even to manhood, 
Ralph wore his hair much longer than was the usual cus- 
tom. But it did not appear out of place ; there was nothing 
“outre” in the long curling ringlets. 

Graduating, I returned to my uncle’s house, a man now, 
feeling my strength. 

“You have done nobly,” my relative cried, warmly, as 
we sat together that night in the library, he smoking, I 
lounging in an easy chair. I never used tobacco. 

“I remembered your words,” I replied, the warm flush 
of gratified pride mounting to my cheeks. “I would be 
unworthy of your generosity if I failed to makq an honor- 
able name.” 

He grasped my hand and shook it warmly; then for an 
hour I related to him many of my college experiences. 

“So they called you ‘preacher,’ eh?” he cried, as I men- 
tioned that circumstance. 

“Yes, but the word, meant as a taunt, did not produce 
any feeling of anger in my breast; indeed, I felt proud of 
it.” 

“Did you, my boy?” then thoughtfully, as if in response 


108 CONFESSION OF LOllKAINE IIEKSCllEL. 

to a question which had arisen in his mind, ‘ht is a noble 
calling.” 

“I have thought so,” I said, knowing to what he had 
reference. 

“You have?” fixing his eyes upon me. 

“Often.” 

“Would you fancy the life of a minister of the gospel?” 

“What life more noble, where greater chances to bene- 
fit mankind, where larger field for good work?” I know 
I spoke eagerly, enthusiastically. 

“You would consecrate your life to the service of God?” 

“And man,” I added. 

He rose from the chair where he had been sitting, and 
clasped my hand in his own, for the second time. 

“And this is your choice?” he asked. 

“If it pleases you, uncle,” I replied. 

He looked me in the eye. 

“Please yourself, my boy. Nothing would give me 
greater satisfaction than to have you make this selection. 
But I would not in any way strive to influence you. What 
you become in the future you must choose and make your- 
self. You are a man now; a man with a mind overflowing 
with worldly knowledge. If your heart is filled with the 
grace of God, that with your knowledge will make you a 
shining light in the noble calling you have evinced an in- 
clination for. But, my dear boy, if you are not sure of 
yourself, do not hasten. One false step may ruin the good 
work of years. Think well, then decide.” 

“I have thought,” I cried; “I have decided.” 

“Then God be with you, and may your mother’s angel 
spirit watch over you.” 

He released my hand, and in a) short time we retired for 
the night; not, however, before I had had a long talk with 
my loved ones, and kissed them both. 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


109 


A good-night kiss, the kiss of a brother, but as my lips 
pressed the red mouth of Ethel, a different feeling for her 
seemed to possess me. A strange feeling. I had never ex- 
perienced it before. 

It was the beginning of the end. 


110 


CONFESSION OF LOKKAINE HEKSCHEL. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THAT OTHER LOVE. 

I took my theological course, was ordained and in- 
stalled as pastor of a little country church about twenty 
miles from the village where my uncle lived. I was yet a 
young man, not quite nine and twenty, when I preached 
my maiden sermon, and it all comes to me now — the lit- 
tle old-fashioned church and its oaken rafters, browned 
by time, the congregation of simple country people, star* 
ingl at the new minister, my uncle’s eyes fixed gravely and 
expectantly upon my face (he had driven the twenty miles 
to hear my first sermon), and the awed faces of Ralph and 
Ethel, who, occupying pews near the pulpit, could see the 
very expression of my eyes, and doubtless perceived my 
very evident nervousness. 

They were then nineteen. She, a woman now, realizing 
beyond my fondest expectations the perfect embodiment 
of perfect womanhood. How entrancingly lovely she 
was. I understood that strange feeling now that had per- 
meated my entire being that night seven years before, when 
I had kissed her good-night. It was the first consciousness 
that I was in love. The first bright ray of that other love, 
which is greater than that of a brother — the love of man 
for woman. She was but a child then, but the feeling just 
bursting from its slumbers then now bloomed forth a ra- 
diant flower, that gladdened m.y heart — brought joy to my 
soul. 


CONFESSION OF LOREAINE HERSCHEL. 


Ill 


Yes, I loved Ethel Ronclere; and she — I felt that she re- 
turned it. 

Standing in the pulpit, nervously scanning my notes, 
my eyes fell upon my brother. A man in all but years; 
the down of the first incipient mustache darkening his lip ; 
the shoulders, broad and square set, giving evidence of 
great strength; the curling locks furnishing an added 
beauty almost unearthly to the handsome face. A great 
feeling of love for that brother welled up from my heart. 
How noble he looked — a brother to be proud of. I gave 
out my text. The words of the Saviour to the angry 
waters: “Peace, be still,” and proceeded with my sermon. 
Slightly nervous at first, I, warming to my work, overcame 
the feeling. I told them of the SavioPs power to quell 
the angry tumult of the raging sea; compared it to the 
troubled waters of a disturbed conscience; pleaded with 
them to trust in that all-powerful One who could, by the 
power of His love, bring peace and tranquility where once 
raged unrest and tumult. 

The sermon was ended. I could see the tell-tale moisture 
in the eyes of my loved ones that told the effect my words 
had produced upon them. Tears of pride; pride for the 
brother, for the companion of childhood days. “A grand 
effort,” whispered my uncle, taking my hands in his own. 
“You have found your calling, my boy. You will accom- 
plish great good.” 

The principal members of my congregation crowded 
around me, overwhelming me with their congratulations. 
I accepted the ovation as modestly as possible, under the 
circumstances, but my heart glowed with a great feeling 
of love for all mankind ; my breast swelled with conscious 
pride. I returned with my uncle to his house. I agreed, 
at his earnest solicitation, to remain with him two days. 


112 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


On the road he told me of his plans concerning Ralph. 
He was to go to Rutgers the beginning of the next term, 
and be given as much opportunity as had been afforded 
me. '‘And if he turns out as well as you have, my boy, I 
shall have two nephews to be honestly proud of.” I 
glanced over my shoulder and said to Ralph, who occu- 
pied the back seat of the carriage with Ethel: "There is not 
much doubt about that; is there, brother?” 

A gleam of resolute determination glowed in his eyes. 

“I shall try, Lorraine; depend on it,” and he meant it. 

"Try, and with the help of God you will succeed,” was 
my response. 

We chatted on various subjects, until my uncle’s house 
was reached. How happy I felt, how well satisfied with 
the world and the people in it ! 

The hour was fast approaching three, when my relative 
drew rein before the old familiar door-step, and Mrs. Ron- 
clere, beginning to show her age, came out of the house to 
congratulate me upon my success and welcome me home. 

Kind old soul! She went to her eternal home a few 
months later. 

The snowy cloth was laid for the late Sunday dinner. 
My uncle usually ate that meal at noon, but on the Sab- 
bath four o'clock was the hour. A happy family, our 
hearts overflowing with love for each other and good feel- 
ing toward all mankind, we gathered about the table. My 
uncle requested me to say grace, to call upon the Lord 
to bless the food of which we were about to partake. I 
did so, a quaver of emotion in my voice. It was the first 
time I had so officiated at my relative’s table. During the 
meal my uncle turned to me and laughingly' said : 

"I suppose the next thing I will hear of or be invited to 
will be the wedding of the Reverend Lorraine Herschel. 


CONFESSION OF LOKRAINE HERSCHEL. 


IIS 


You know the scriptural saying: ^It is not well that man 
should live alone/ ” 

I know I turned ridiculously red. I could not help it. 
I was about to retort in badinage that he — my uncle — had 
not considered the passage he had quoted, but upon sec- 
ond thought did not do so. 

‘When I can find some one who will marry me then 
will I take a wife,’’ I said. 

He shook his head significantly. 

“When you are ready, I do not think you will find that 
a difficult matter,” he remarked. 

I remember feeling myself growing redder in the face; 
my blushes were growing uncomfortable to me. I glanced 
at Ethel. She was blushing, too; my brother watching 
her with a half playful, half serious look in his gray eyes. 

“We will see,” I said, and the subject was dropped. We 
arose from the table. After dinner, in company with 
Ralph, Ethel and my uncle, I strolled over the old place, 
visiting the fields and familiar scenes of boyhood days. 
How changed some of them seemed to me. The stream 
that ran through the meadow, to my boyish eyes almost 
a river, now appeared diminished in size, much smaller, a 
mere rivulet. Even the fields seemed not so extensive. 
There is so much more in life to a child. Not for ambition 
cr wealth, but peace, happiness, contentment. Are not 
these better than fame or gold? 

We lingered until the sun went down in golden glory, 
and then returned to the house. During the greater part 
of the next two days I was with my brother, coaching him 
for his coming examination. He seemed eager, anxious to 
pass without an error — a laudable ambition, to encourage 
the fulfillment of which I exerted myself to the utmost. 
And he was successful, passing without one mistake, with 


114 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


honor. I felt proud of him when I heard of it. I could 
not be present, a sick parishioner claiming my presence 
and attention. I saw Ethel alone, once, before returning 
to my pastorial duties. She was standing by the gate, 
watching Ralph and my uncle, who were engaged in earn- 
est conversation as they approached the house. I had 
been writing, outlining my sermon for the coming Sab- 
bath, and had strolled out of the library for air. 

I approached her without being seen or heard. 

“Thinking?” I asked. 

She started slightly and turned her face to me. 

“Indulging in day dreams,” she replied. 

“A dangerous pastime,” I remarked. - 

“Why?” in a tone of innocent surprise. 

I laughed lightly. 

“You know it is claimed by some that when the mind is 
abstract and wandering during waking hours the father of 
sin has possession of it?” 

“Is that really true?” 

“It is so said.” 

A roguish twinkle came to her jet-black eyes. With a 
sly glance she murmured : 

“Strange! I was thinking of you.” 

“There are exceptions to every rule and saying,” I 
hastened to remark, flushing — an unpleasant habit and 
one I never could control. 

“Then in this case there must be an exception?” 

“Most assuredly.” Then, taking her hand, I asked: 
“Do you think of your big brother often?” 

“Every day, Lorraine, and oh, how lonely Ralph and 
I have been without you 1” her eyes sparkling with emo- 
tion. 

"And I have in turn missed you,” I said in a low tone. 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


116 


bending over her. “We* were such inseparable compan- 
ions, you know.” 

“Yes.” 

I held her hand. 

“Would that! we were never to be parted again,” I cried 
fervently, pressing it. I would probably have said much 
more; my heart was yearning to speak my love, and ask 
her to be my life companion, the partner of my joys and 
sorrows, my beloved wife, but at that moment Ralph and 
my uncle reached the gate, and I said no more. 

My brother glanced inquiringly from her face to mine, 
but said nothing. My uncle simply smiled, a very signifi- 
cant smile. Ethel was trembling ! 

The morning I took my departure Ralph and I were 
alone. I had been solving a difficult problem for him. I 
had promised to do so before I left. The intricate example 
had been proven and I was preparing to go, when he 
asked in a peculiar tone : 

“Brother, do you love Ethel?” 

I was drawing on my gloves, but ceased and, turning, 
looked him in the face. 

“Why, what a question, Ralph! Of course, I love her. 
Do not you? We have been as brothers and sisters so 
many years.” 

“And you still possess for her that brotherly love?” 

I hesitated a moment. What could be his object in ask- 
ing such a question? Finally I replied: 

“Yes, a brother’s love, intensified by the years that' have 
passed. My heart has developed, grown larger during 
these years. Naturally it has greater power for love now 
than then. Tell me, why do you question me thus?” 

He sighed deeply. 

“Some day I will tell you,” was his reply. 


116 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


I left him, wondering if he, too, looked upon the fair 
one with covetous eyes, if his heart yearned for her as did 
my own. 

“But no,” I reasoned. “He is so young. He cannot 
know what such love is.” 

Ah! I did not know. I never discovered it until too 
late. I judged him by myself. I thought that he was as 
I had been at his age. In a few days I had forgotten the 
circumstance. It all came to me in the bitter days that 
followed in after years and wrecked my life. 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


117 


CHAPTER XV. 

“THE TELLING OF IT.” 

Ralph entered college. I could not accompany him to 
. New Brunswick without neglecting my duties, and that 
I could not bring myself to even think of. To be success- 
ful it is necessary to be faithful, and so (not without a pang 
of disappointment, for I yearned to see the old familiar 
place, its brown stone buildings and grassy lawn) I saw 
him take his departure, accompanied by our uncle, and 
bade him God speed. 

The months passed rapidly. I had not visited my for- 
mer home since the morning of Ralph^s departure, and 
then only for a few hours, and was beginning to feel home- 
sick. A longing to gaze upon the beautiful face of Ethel 
seemed to possess me, and I had made up my mind to 
take advantage of the first opportunity to visit my uncle’s 
house, when I was unexpectedly summoned there by the 
death of Ethel’s mother. 

A boy, mounted upon a wiry little pony, dashed up to 
my door one morning and conveyed the mournful tid- 
ings. I did not lose any time, but, putting my horse into 
the shafts of my buggy as expeditiously as possible, set 
out upon my twenty-mile drive. 

She was dead when I arrived; had breathed her last 
some ten minutes before I entered the house, I gazed 
upon her cold white face, and murmured: 


118 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


‘‘So must it be some day with each of us. God’s will 
be done.” 

The grief of the orphaned girl was almost inconsolable. 
She loved her mother and her sudden demise nearly pros- 
trated her. 

From my uncle I learned that Mrs. Ronclere had re- 
tired the night before, feeling very fatigued, but not suffer- 
ing pain. In the morning she had not felt able to arise 
from bed. In a few hours she was dead. 

“An affection of the heart,” the physician said, and so 
signed tha burial certificate. 

How uncertain is life ! 

The funeral took place the following day. Rather hast- 
ily, one would say, but the sight of her mother’s pale, quiet 
face, cold and still in death, seemed to produce such vio- 
lent demonstrations of grief on the part of Ethel that the 
physician hinted significantly that the sooner the sad 
ceremonies were over and done with, the better it would 
be for her, as nervous prostration would surely follow if 
she could not be quieted; and so my uncle concluded it 
advisable to act upon the doctor’s suggestion, and made 
immediate preparations for the last sad rites. 

For two days after the funeral Ethel kept to her room, 
refusing to be comforted, and turning from food; then, 
to our joy and surprise, she reappeared at the table, taking 
up the life of former years, seemingly resolved to consign 
her grief to the tomb where her loved mother lay, peace- 
fully sleeping that last long sleep, to awaken only at the 
final trump. 

Only by the exercise of great will power could this end 
have been reached, and I found myself wondering at the 
force of character, of resolute determination thus exhib- 
ited by the girl, sufficiently strong to hold her grief in 


CONFESSION OF LOKRAINE HERSCHEL. 


119 


check, to control a heart left lonely and bereft of that love 
which the deceased had always felt for her child. 

“Grief would not kill this one,^^ I murmured, and in the 
years that followed I found I had spoken the truth, un- 
consciously. No, neither grief nor remorse! I remained 
the balance of the week. Monday when I arrived, it was 
not until Saturday evening that I took my departure, and 
when I did it was with the words of Ethel Ronclere ring- 
ing in my ears, chiming in my heart the words in which 
she said that she would be my wife. It came about in this 
manner: The night following the morning that the girl 
had come to us again, after two days of silent mourning, 
my uncle took me to the library, and when the door was 
closed behind us, said: 

“My boy, for some time I have been thinking. I have 
seen that you dearly love this girl Ethel and I believe that 
she returns it. She is now alone in the world. Father, 
mother have both gone to another and better existence, 
and she is left without any of kindred, without a protector. 
You understand me. Not absolutely helpless, for as long 
as I live my house shall be her home, but not to me can 
she pour out the world of affection that dwells in her heart. 
You, of all the < men in the world, are best suited to her. 
You have been children together, have loved each other 
for years, and know each other in heart and soul. You 
must be her protector — father, mother, husband to her. 
Go to her, Lorraine. Ask her to trust her future in your 
hands. Depend on it, she will not hesitate. She will not 
refuse you.” 

I grasped his two hands and shook them warmly in 
mute thankfulness. His words showed me my duty, and 
opened up before my eyes a vista of long days of everlast- 
ing happiness, joy and peace, such as man ne’er pos- 


120 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


sessed before — at least such were my thoughts. Then I 
left him, a sad smile upon his lips. Perchance he thought 
of his own youth, the bitter disappointment of his life! 
Some men never forget! 

I found her in the dining-room, gazing out of the win- 
dow, the dusky shadows of coming night resting upon her 
radiant hair, a far-away look in her eyes. She turned as 
I approached her, and must have felt what was coming, as 
her eyes sought the floor and she trembled slightly. 

I led her to a seat and, taking her little, trembling hand, 
said: 

“Ethel dear, I have come to ask you a question. God, in 
his better judgment, has seen fit to deprive you of your 
loved one. Your heart is sad and lonely, weary in its 
eager yearning for love. Can you not give to me in addi- 
tion to the affection you have always felt for me that other 
love, which now has no object to rest upon? Will you not 
give me the right to cherish and protect you with my 
heart’s best love? Love next to that I feel for my eternal 
master? Tell me, dearest, will you not become my wife?” 

I could feel her trembling nervously. Suddenly she 
burst into tears, tears that I could not understand. 

“You will always love me?” she sobbed at last. 

Hardly understanding the question, I replied. 

“I have always loved you, my darling; loved you as a 
brother, until seven years ago that affection changed to the 
burning passion of a lover. I cannot see why I should 
change. My love for you is my entire being. I cannot 
change that, unless I change myself.” 

She dried her tears and composed herself with an effort ; 
then, looking up into my eyes, said: 

“I will be your wife, Lorraine.” 

With a cry of joy I clasped her to my breast. Oh, God! 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


121 


how happy I felt. My brain, dazed as one intoxicated, 
almost mad with rapturous bliss. My pulses throbbed as 
never before. In my mad passion I rained kisses upon her 
upturned face, brow, cheeks, lips, until she drew back, as 
if in alarm. I had never acted so before, but there was 
some excuse for it. She was my love, my life. How I 
hated to tear myself away, but it must be done. The Sab- 
bath must find me at my post, doing God’s work, and oh ! 
how I thanked Him that night for so blessing me. 

That scene now comes vividly to my mind. I can almost 
feel the beating of her heart against my own as I write. I 
shall never forget that happiness. I hope I shall never 
want to. I told my uncle of Ethel’s answer before leaving. 
His kindly face glowed with satisfaction. 

‘T told you so,” he cried. ‘T knew it before your words 
informed me. God has been good to you, my boy.” 

I agreed with him then. Surely no mortal had ever 
been blessed as I. I would not at that moment have 
changed places with a king. What coronet is more pre- 
cious or brings more honor than the love of a good 
woman ! 

It was midnight before I reached the parsonage. 


122 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


CHAPTER XVL 

DEATH AND MARRIAGE. 

From that time on I made weekly visits to my love. 
Each Thursday found me at my uncle’s house. I would 
drive over in the morning, remain all night and return to 
my home the following day. I received frequent letters 
from my brother, each one containing a glowing account 
of his success at college. For some reason I never in- 
formed him of my engagement to Ethel. I cannot under- 
stand why I did not. The facts were so well known in the 
neighborhood, were the talk of the country, in fact, that I 
suppose I felt as if he must be in possession of them, and 
so, although I wrote him each week, I never mentioned 
the circumstance. My uncle also neglected to do so. I 
afterward learned why Ethel did not. Upon making my 
accustomed visit one day, about six weeks after my en- 
gagement, I found my relative greatly troubled over the 
receipt of a letter, which had just been delivered him by 
the boy who earned a few dollars each week by officiating 
as mail carrier for many of the villagers who resided at 
some distance from the postoffice, my uncle being one of 
these. 

“Bad ne^^s, my boy,” he said, gravely, handing me the 
open letter. It was from the dean of Rutgers College and 
informed my uncle that an epidemic of diphtheria was 
raging in the city and had attacked many of the students, 
Ralph among the number. 


CONFESSION OF LORKAINE HERSCHEL. 


123 


“We have had several deaths,” the letter went on to 
say, “and I consider it my duty to inform you that there 
is great danger of the disease proving fatal. We are doing 
all that can possibly be done to check it, but the nature 
of the affliction is sudh that but little can be accomplished.” 

I silently returned the letter, the handsome face of my 
brother coming up before me. I could picture him lying, 
suffering among strangers far from home. The tears 
came to my eyes; my heart seemed filled to overflowing. 
And if he should die, if I should never see the love in his 
eyes, hear his ringing laugh again! The thought was 
terrible to me. I loved him so. 

“I will go to him,” I said resolutely. “I will nurse him 
back to life. My place is by his side I I promised our angel 
mother upon her dying bed that I would shield him from 
evil. I must keep my word.” 

“Nobly spoken,” cried my uncle. “But think. Will 
your presence do aught to relieve his sufferings? Can you 
benefit him any by thus exposing yourself? The disease 
is a contagious one. You may be stricken. Remember, 
Lorraine, you have others to live for.” 

His words surprised me. I thought he should have 
urged me to start at once. 

“I cannot leave my brother to die among strangers with- 
out making an effort to save him,” I cried. 

“He shall not die among strangers unattended,” replied 
my relative. “I will go to him. I am getting on in years. 
If I should contract the disease and it should ternainate 
seriously my loss would not be so severely felt.” 

The tears came to my eyes. I sprang forward and 
grasped his hand. 

“Forgive me, sir,” I cried. “In my heart I thought you 
unfeeling. I have wronged you.” 


124 


COOTESSION OF LOKRAINE HERSCHEL. 


He smiled sadly. 

‘‘My words may have seemed so to you/^ he said. “But 
I was thinking of you when I spoke them — of you and 
Ethel. No ; let me go to Ralph. Believe me, it is best.” 

But I would not accept this proposition, and before 
the light of another day was on my way to the side of my 
suffering brother. I kissed my darling before I hurried 
away. 

“I will not die,” I murmured. “That God who has 
blessed me with your love will bring me back to you.” 

“Do you think he will die?” she asked, in a faint tone. 

“Pray heaven that he may not,” I cried fervently. 

She gave utterance to a faint sigh, and I left her side. 

I found Ralph burning up with fever and delirious. He 
did not know me. 

“One of the worst cases, sir,” the attendant informed 
me. 

For two days I sat by his side, looking upon the wasted 
face, into the wild eyes, hearing the gasping, horrible 
sound, as he vainly tried to clear his throat of the deadly 
membrane. 

On the morning of the third day a telegram reached 
me. I tore open the envelope. It was from Ethel, and 
bore these words : 

“Come home. Your uncle is dying. ETHEL.” 

I staggered and would have fallen had not the attendant, 
who was near, supported me. 

My uncle dying, my brother very near death’s door! 

What could I do? 

The doctor entered the room at that moment. One 
glance at my brother’s face and he said : 

“He will recover. He is now out of danger. A change 
for the better has taken place during the night.” 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


126 


Fervently I thanked God for all his mercies. My brother 
would recover, but my uncle, my kind-hearted relative, 
what of him? 

“You are sure that all danger is past?^^ I asked, turning 
to the doctor. 

“Quite sure, sir,” he replied. 

My mind now at rest concerning Ralph, I determined to 
obey the message sent me by my affianced wife. I would 
hasten to my uncle’s side. My brother needed me no 
longer. I could return to him when my uncle had re- 
covered, for I did not believe him. dying. Ethel was 
alarmed, that was all ; he was possibly very ill. But I could 
not bring myself to believe his illness of a serious nature. 
He had been so strong and well when I had left him but 
a few short days before. So I reasoned. The next morn- 
ing found me at home once more — my boyhood’s home! 
Ethel met me at the door, her eyes red from weeping, look- 
ing tired and worn out from loss of rest. 

“You are just in time,” she whispered faintly. “The 
doctor says he cannot live an hour longer.” 

Her words fell upon my heart as molten lead. Then it 
must be true. - He was really dying I With a heavy heart 
I opened the door of his bed-room and approached the 
bed. He was conscious and knew me at once. A glad light 
of satisfaction came to his eyes. 

“Thank — God — you have — come,” he gasped, his 
breath coming with difficulty. I took his hand and pressed 
it. I never loved my relative so much as when I felt that 
I should lose him. We seldom appreciate the value of any- 
thing until it is lost to us forever. 

“He cannot recover,” the physician assured me, “and 
he knows it. In some way he has contracted diphtheria, 
and when it attacks persons as old as your relative it 
generally takes them off.” 


126 


CONFESSION OF LOKRAINE HERSCHEL. 


His modulated, professional voice grated harshly upon 
my nerves. How could my uncle have contracted this 
disease? Ah, that fatal letter! It must have come from 
that I could assign it to no other cause. My dear uncle 
never spoke again on earth. For an hour I sat by his side, 
Ethel near me, clasping the dear hand in my own. Several 
times he essayed to speak, but failed. The struggle for 
breath became more intense, the kindly eyes grew wild, 
then dim, the heaving breast ceased its struggle, and my 
uncle passed away. It is needless to describe the sorrow 
that took possession of my heart. I cannot record how 
I suffered that night. 

The doctor advised an immediate burial. “The disease 
is a contagious one, and the sooner he is under ground the 
better.” 

I took his advice, and the following day Ethel and I 
followed the dear one to the grave. 

We were alone! 

I could not well return to my brother at once. My rela- 
tive’s affairs were to be settled up, the will must be read 
and other legal matters attended to. So I put off return- 
ing to him, feeling easy in my mind concerning him, as the 
physican had given me positive assurance that he was out 
of danger. 

“How shocked he will be when he hears of our be- 
reavement,” I thought. 

The next day the will was read. I found he had left 
everything to Ralph, Ethel and me. She was not related 
to him, but he loved her as a dear child, and gave her an 
equal share of his property with us. 

I found myself rich, for my uncle died worth nearly 
$200,000, which surprised me greatly. I had never sup- 
posed him so well off. I settled up the estate, putting my 


CONFESSION OF LORKAINE HERSCHEL. 127 

brother’s share in the bank, and also securing the portion 
coming to Ethel. She, poor girl, seemed to feel the death 
of Uncle Ralph as keenly as though she had been his own 
daughter. He had been kind to her, and had really taken 
the place of her dead father. 

It came to me. suddenly one day, about one week after 
the death of my relative, that it would be best to hasten 
my wedding day. Ethel was now virtually alone in the 
world, with the exception of myself. There was no one 
to whom she could go, no home save mine open to her. 
She was to be my wife; why not have it over and done 
with? 

I told her of my thoughts. She looked at me reproach- 
fully. 

“So soon after our uncle’s death?” she murmured. 

I flushed, my old unfortunate habit. I almost felt 
ashamed of myself. But what was to be done? She could 
not live in the house by herself. What difference would a 
few months make? I knew my uncle would have approved 
of it. So I said : 

“I will admit, dear Ethel, that my haste seems almost 
wanting in respect for the dead, but is it not best so? We 
need not indulge in wedding festivities. They are to my 
mind unnecessary and frivolous at any time. A plain 
marriage, and you will have a protector, one whose life 
will go to prove his unbounded love.” I explained all to 
her and she finally consented. We were made man and 
wife the following day, the gray-haired pastor of the village 
church officiating. He warmly commended my action. 
“It is the best for both of you,” he said. 

There was some little talk about the wedding taking 
place so soon after my uncle’s death, but every village, 
city, town or country has its gossips, old women and 


128 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


scandal mongers, and they must talk. The majority of 
the villagers looked upon it as the proper thing. My heart 
told me I had done right, and when I clasped my bride in 
my arms and heard her words “You are my husband” 
I would not have cared if the entire community had con- 
demned my action. I had my wife, that was all I desired. 
She filled my heart, my life. What need I care what the 
world said? 

That feeling did not remain with me in the years that 
followed. To prevent that same world from talking I 
have suffered, isolated myself from men, led them to be- 
lieve me dead, but it was for her sake even then. 

Ah me ! If we could but foretell what the future has in 
store for us! 


CONFBBSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


129 


CHAPTER XVIL 

AN ASTOUNDING REVELATION. 

Three days after my marriage I returned to my brothers 
side. I found him convalescent, looking pale and weak, 
but out of danger. 

“I am glad you have come,” he cried eagerly upon see- 
ing me. ‘T have felt so home-sick for the sight of an old 
familiar face. The doctor won’t allow any of my fellow 
students to visit me for fear of contagion even now. It 
seems to me a needless precaution.” He spoke fretfully. 

He was as yet unaware of the death of Uncle Ralph. 
I had not written to him upon that sad subject. I pre- 
ferred telling him. So, breaking the news as gently as 
possible, I told him of our loss. 

His handsome face turned deathly white; pale before, it 
was ghastly now. He started and sat erect in bed. 

‘‘Uncle Ralph dead and buried?” he gasped hoarsely. 

I tried my best to compose him. He seemed to take it 
very hard. 

“If I could only have seen him once before he was 
buried,” he moaned, rocking to and fro, his hands to his 
head. 

I showed him wherein this had been impossible, and 
gradually succeeded in calming him. 

“And Ethel,” he demanded suddenly, “what of her? 
Where is she?” 


180 


CONFESSIOJ^ OF LORKAINE HERSCHEL. 




CONFESSION OF LOKRAINE HERSCHEL. 


131 


“Ethel is my wife now. I thought it best to hasten our 
marriage,” I replied. 

He turned his eyes upon me, a terrible look of horror in 
their depths. I fell back, amazed, startled at that wild 
glare. 

“Your wife?” his lips forming the words, his tongue re- 
fusing to articulate. 

“Yes, my wife. We have been engaged for some time.” 

He' still sat staring at me, the bed clothing gathered 
about him, his hands working nervously, his eyes still re- 
taining that awful look. 

“Engaged for some time?” he repeated, as if not quite 
comprehending my words ; then, with ai shudder and lean- 
ing toward me, he cried : 

“How long, how long have you been engaged?” 

I told him and explained why I had hastened the wed- 
ding. 

“I thought you knew of the engagement,” I concluded, 
alarmed at his strange actions, wondering what it all 
meant. 

The wasted features grew hard and stern. A bitterness 
of expression took the place of the one of horrified amaze- 
ment. 

“How should I know?” he muttered. “You never 
wrote me. She,” setting his teeth together, “kept me in 
ignorance of it. My uncle, probably thinking you had 
done so, never mentioned it. How should I know, I say?” 
the last words uttered almost fiercely. 

My loved brother had never before spoken to me in 
such a tone. I felt grieved and hurt. 

“It was an oversight, dear Ralph. Knowing it so well 
ourselves, the fact not being any secret even to the country 
people, we never thought of writing to you about it. Then 


132 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


again, it was but a short time after the death of Ethel’s 
mother. Possibly that is why she did not write you. It 
was carelessness on my part, likely thoughtlessness with 
Uncle Ralph.” 

“Do you think that is the reason why Ethel did not 
write?” his eyes upon my face. 

“I cannot explain it in any other way. Your action 
grieves me, brother. I expected to see your face light 
up upon receiving the intelligence, hoped to hear you 
wish me joy. Instead of that the tidings seem to have 
had only the effect of causing you sorrow, I might say 
terror. You are completely unmanned.” 

I spoke reproachfully. I felt hurt, and did not try to 
conceal it. He smiled a bitter, almost pitying, smile. 

“Does it seem so to you?” he murmured, his voice 
sounding weak. “It all came so suddenly, was so unex- 
pected. I have been very ill ; take that into consideration. 
I am far from being strong even now. That and the death 
of my uncle coming upon me at the same time, has un- 
manned me, as you say. Oh, God help me !” with a wild, 
appealing cry, changing from the weak, explanatory tone 
to one of pitiful supplication. I sprang to save him from 
falling, as I could see that he was about to faint. My arms 
received his helpless form. 

“Weakness,” I muttered. “Just recovering from a se- 
vere spell of sickness. The sad tidings of death has, as he 
has said, unmanned him. The surprise occasioned by the 
other has finished the work. But why that horrified, bitter 
expression? Why that glare in the eyes?” 

My mind wandering, a feeling of weight at heart, I 
tenderly laid him back upon the pillows and set about re- 
storing him to consciousness. My efforts were attended 
with success. In a few moments a deep sigh welled up 
from his breast and the eyelids fluttered apart. 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


188 


Seeing me bending over him, he shuddered slightly 
and again closed his eyes. Why should he seek to avoid 
my gaze? Suddenly, like a flash, there dawned upon my 
mind the suspicion that weakness was not solely respons- 
ible for his strange behavior. It must be something else. 
Bending over him, I whispered slowly: 

‘‘Brother, tell me, and truly before God, do you love 
Ethel? Is this the explanation of your conduct?” 

His eyes opened at once, a pecular look in their depth. 

“I asked you that question once. You replied: ‘Yes, 
with a brother’s love.’ Let your words be my answer.” 

The peculiar look that accompanied these words star- 
tled me. 

“With only a brother’s love?” I demanded anxiously. 

His answering action caused me to draw back in amaze- 
ment. Throwing the covering back off the bed, his hair 
in disorder, his mouth firmly set, he arose upon one elbow ; 
then, tljrowing aside the pillow and bolster, exercising 
more strength than I would have thought possible, he 
plunged his hand down beneath the mattress and began 
an eager search for some object. Presently a glad cry es- 
caped him. “It is still there,” he muttered. “During my 
illness they have not taken it from me.” Then, withdraw- 
ing his hand, I saw clutched in the thin, wasted fingers a 
photograph. 

“Look upon this,” he cried, thrusting it toward me. 
“You see the face?” I glanced upon the pictured face — 
the face of Ethel ! My wife ! Hurriedly lie went on : “You 
see, it is her face, the most beautiful face on earth to me, 
the face of my boyhood companion — your wife now. You 
ask me if my love for her is greater than that of a brother? 
I will reply, and tell you the truth, my brother. Yes; my 
love is not a love; it is a passion, burning, consuming 


134 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


me! For her I have struggled and studied far into the 
night, that she mig'ht feel proud of me! For her I have 
prayed God to spare my life. All over now. Useless! She 
has gone from me. To you is her heart given. She is 
your wife,” the words coming in a low wail. Then, chok- 
ing with emotion, he murmured: ‘T wish you joy and 
long years of happiness, brother. I could not help loving 
her, and even at this moment cannot drive her from my 
heart. I shall always love her. You will not censure nor 
blame me, I know. We have been loving brothers, you 
and| me. No cloud has marred the bright sunshine of our 
devotion. Oh, if I could only have told you this before ! 
It is the only secret I have ever had from you. Oh, why 
did I not tell you !” 

Tlie mournful, pathetic tone reached my heart. I felt 
as never I had felt before. How I pitied him! The ex- 
citement had produced a! weakening effect upon him. He 
fell back upon the pillows and turned his face toward the 
wall. 

‘T hope I may die,” he muttered. 

The photograph fell from his nerveless fingers, then 
the reaction came; the hot, scalding tears burst from 'his 
eyes, while I, shocked, horrified, amazed, sat staring at 
him, much as he had glared upon me but a short time 
before. I had judged him wrongly! He had looked upon 
her with covetous eyes and a longing heart. He, my 
brother, loved my wife as a lover loves! Could I blame 
him? He was the: same age as herself, had been with her 
inseparably and constantly since childhood days. I loved 
her. Why should not the same divine passion influence 
him as it had myself? I uttered no word of reproach. I 
felt none for her. She was as God had made her— beauti- 
ful, to attract the hearts and bewilder the senses of men. 


CONFESSlOJf OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


135 


For that she was not to blame, nor could he well prevent 
nature from asserting itself. But she — could she have 
encouraged him? The thought flashed through my brain 
like wild fire. If she had felt love for him she would not 
now be my wife. 

She was no coquette ; of that I felt sure. She would not 
have encouraged him and then wedded me. No; my 
beautiful wife loved me, and a divine pity possessed me 
as I sat gazing upon the form of him I loved next to 
her own beautiful self. He lay sobbing tumultuously, the 
q^aroxysms of grief violent and racking his wasted form. 
I feared a relapse might be the result of all this. If I had 
only known, I would not have told him at that time. 

“Come, dear brother,^^ I murmured, bending over him; 
“come, be a man! She is not lost to you. The same roof 
that shelters her will be your own. She will ever be near 
you. Our family circle will be the same as in days of yore, 
the kind face of our relative excepted. We will be as we 
have ever been, loving brothers — she, now more than 
ever, your dear sister. You are young. This first love 
will leave your heart, now that its fulfillment is impossible. 
There are other briglit, beautiful faces in the world, other 
lovely women. You will marry and we will all live to- 
gether, a happy family.” 

The frantic sobbing ceased. He turned his face toward 
me, and, the traces of his violent grief upon his cheeks, re- 
plied: 

“Yours is a noble nature, Lorraine. Your heart beats 
with love for me, I feel. I will strive to control my grief, 
but the memory of Ethel will never leave my heart. I have 
loved her so many years. She is the only woman I shall 
ever love. You will see, I speak truly. Now, brother, 
one favor I will ask of you. Do not tell her how I suffered 


186 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


when you told me this. I do not want her to know. Will 
you promise me this?” 

I gave the desired promise. A long-drawn sigh of re- 
lief came from his lips. Taking my hand, he clasped it in 
his own. 

'‘Leave me, brother. I am weary. Leave me to myself, 
to sleep.” 

I pressed his hand. He turned his face once more to 
the wall, and I left him, loving him more fondly that mo- 
ment than at any time in my life. I pitied him, and the 
combined forces of compassion and brotherly love brought 
him' closer to my heart. 


CONFESSIOJ^ OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


187 


CHAPTER XVIIt 

GATHERING SHADOWS. 

I secured a room at an hotel not far from the depot and 
college and, after thinking the matter over, concluded it 
best not to disturb Ralph by another visit that day. “He 
will need rest and time to recover from the severe blow 
he has this day received. I will visit him in the morning, 
not before.” So, going to my room, I ordered writing ma- 
terials brought there and composed myself to write a long 
letter to my wife. I mentioned the fact that Ralph was 
improving rapidly, and that just as soon as he was strong 
enough I should insist upon his taking a vacation and 
coming home. I also stated that I would be at home to 
fill my pulpit upon the coming Sabbath. Then I retired, 
after a fervent prayer that my dear brother might over- 
come the sorrow which lay like a weight upon his heart 
and that this might not estrange us. I awoke bright and 
early the following morning. The sun was shining in at 
my window, and I could hear the birds chirping out- 
side. All nature seemed peaceful and bright and my 
heart gladdened at the sight. It was a beautiful morning 
in early spring. 

Hastily making my toilet, I went downstairs and out 
upon the street. New Brunswick is a beautiful little city, 
and I was familiar with every nook and corner of it, and, 
as I had not had an opportunity to visit any of the old 
familiar scenes upon the occasion of my former visit, I de- 


138 CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 

termined to take a long walk before eating my matutinal 
meal, thinking (and rightly, too) that it would give me 
an appetite. So, for nearly two hours I strolled leisurely 
along the familiar streets, out into the country, and, re- 
turning to my hotel, ate a mighty meal. The hour was 
not yet six when I had left the hotel. It was nearly nine, 
when, my meal over, I crossed the railroad track and en- 
tered the college grounds. 

Ralph was sitting propped up in bed, eating a simple 
meal of soft boiled eggs, toast and tea, as I entered the 
room. He seemed glad to see me. 

“How are you this morning?” I cried cheerily. 

“Much better, brother. See! I have eaten nearly two 
eggs and this large slice of toast,^’ he replied. 

“Keep on like that and you’ll soon be out,” I remarked, 
drawing a chair up to the bed. 

“I hope so,” he murmured wistfully. “I want to get 
out just as soon as I can. Lying in bed so long is not 
pleasant, and a fine morning like this makes a fellow’s 
blood tingle to be out} in the air.” 

“Don’t exercise undue haste,” I continued. “A relapse 
is always dangerous.” 

“Don’t worry about me. I will take proper care of my- 
self,” he replied. 

After a few moments’ silence, he munching the toast, 
I watching him, V said : 

“Just as soon as you are strong enough I want you to 
come home for a few days. A week in the country with 
us will do more to put you on your feet than all the physic 
in the universe. God’s medicines, fresh air and sunshine, 
are what you now most need.” 

He averted his eyes for a moment, and then, without 
replying to my words, asked : 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


199 


“Did Uncle Ralph die wealthy?” 

The question struck me as 'being a peculiar one, coming 
from him, but I hastened to reply,delling him all. 

For some time after I had finished he sat silently gaz- 
ing out of the window. 

“You say my share of the money is in the bank?” 

“Yes; I deposited it there for you.” 

“Until I am of age?” a strange eagerness in his tone. 

“No; the terms of the will expressly dictated that you 
were to have the full power to act for yourself, subject to 
no limitation and unrestrained by guardianship.” 

“Thank you. Dear Uncle Ralph; I shall think of him 
with sorrow every time I sign his name to a, check. I wish 
I could have seen him,” and the tears came to his eyes. 

“You were so low when he died,” I hastened to say. 

“Yes, I know,” with a sigh. “Why is it, I wonder, that 
the good men of this world, those who are a blessing to 
the community at large, usually are the ones selected by 
the Almighty to leave it?” 

“The works of God are sometimes mysterious,” I said, 
“but they cannot be wrong.” 

“No; I suppose not,” absently. “When do you propose 
returning home?” changing the subject. 

“To-day is Thursday. I must be home by Sunday.” 

“Then you can remain with me one day more?” 

“Yes, I shall not leave you before to-morrow night.” 

“I am glad of that. I want to see as much of you as 
I can before you go.” 

His words did not strike me as being strange then. 
They returned to me a few days later. 

I remained by his side nearly the entire day, leaving him 
only to eat my meals. We talked on many subjects, but 
never one word about Ethel. I noticed this. He was 
striving to forget his hopeless love. 


140 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


The following day (Friday) I read to him. He seemed 
to enjoy it. It was a day of pleasure to me. That night 
I took my departure, after a long conversation with the 
worthy physician as to the time necessary for Ralph to 
regain his strength sufficiently to justify him in starting 
for home. 

“A few days more, with proper care, and he will be all 
right,’- he said. 

‘T have no fear but that he will receive all the at?tention 
necessary while under your care. Doctor,” I warmly re- 
plied. He bowed in a gratified manner. None of us are 
so strong but what a few words of commendation and 
praise will reach our vulnerable spot. Vanity is the beset- 
ting sin of mankind and womankind. 

But my friend the doctor was worthy all praise — a 
Christian gentleman and a thorough student; not an old 
man, but old age is not always necessary to insure wis- 
dom. 

I arrived at home early Saturday afternoon. Home! 
Sweet, sweet home! The words of the immortal song 
came to my mind as I walked up the path leading to the 
house. 

My little wife met me at the door. How pleasant it is 
to have our loved ones waiting to press the welcoming 
kiss upon our lips, glad to have us with them once more. 

I must not write in this strain; it will prove too much 
for me. Even now the tell-tale moisture fills my eyes, 
and I cannot see my paper before me. It touches the old 
sore spot, strikes the tender chords of memory, and that 
I must not indulge in. The past must be buried. 

Eagerly my wife questioned me about Ralph. She had 
received my letter, but preferred hearing from my lips 
the news. I told her all, omitting the portion I had prom- 
ised my brother not to disclose. 


CONFESSION OF LOKKAINE HERSCHEL. 


m 


“And he will be with us next week?” she murmured 
when I had finished. 

“The doctor says he will be sufficiently strong,” I re- 
plied. 

An hour’s chat and I buried myself in my library. My 
sermon for the next day had yet to be prepared, and, al- 
though (I will confess it) I would have preferred remain- 
ing with my darling, God’s work must not be neglected. 

In a few hours I had finished and then returned to 
Ethel. She was laying the cloth for supper, singing a low, 
sweet song. I stood in the doorway and watched her un- 
perceived. How tranquil and beautiful the scene to me! 
The busy little clock ticking merrily upon the mantel, tell- 
ing away our lives; a few pots of geraniums, blooming 
upon the flower-stand near the window; the snowy cloth 
laid for supper, while from the kitchen near floated the 
aroma of coffee and the cooking meats. A home scene — 
a scene I shall never forget. 

Presently my wife ceased to sing. Her eyes glanced 
absently out of the window. It was just growing dusk 
outside. Mechanically she gazed, and then a convulsive 
sigh came from her breast. 

I hastened toward her. 

“What, sighing?” I murmured, taking her in my arms. 
“Sad, my darling?” 

“No, no, Lorraine; I was only thinking. Sad times 
come to, us all sometimes. Even in the happiest moments 
the thought comes: ‘Will this always last?’ ” 

“Foolish little wife,” I murmured tenderly. “Why 
should it not last? You must not think that way. It seems 
like doubting the goodness of God.” 

She smiled, turning her face up to mine. I saw a tear 
in her eye. I kissed it away, and soon she was singing 
again. 


142 


CONFESSION OF LOKRAINE HERSCHEL. 


The Sabbath came (blessed day of rest). My sermon 
reached the hearts of my congregation. I could see it by 
the holy look in their eyes as they filed out of the church. 
Possibly some of them forgot all about it before reaching 
home ; many do that. If the story of our Savior could be 
kept constantly before the minds of all, every day the same 
as Sunday, there would be more and better Christians. 

There are too many days to forget what is taught on 
the Sabbath! 

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday came; no letter from 
Ralph ; no sight of his beloved face. 

Thursday morning a letter was handed me by the post- 
master. I recognized my brother’s handwriting upon the 
envelope, and without waiting to reach home, tore it open 
and read it. The news it brought appalled me, brought 
a sickening feeling to my heart. This is what it said : 

“Philadelphia, April — , i8 — . 

“My Dearly Beloved Brother — ^This communication 
will doubtless bring sorrow to your heart and grieve you 
sorely, but I cannot help it. Forgive me for what I am 
about to do — what I have already done. When last I 
saw you you urged me to visit you, and in your society, 
surrounded by love and care, recover my strength and 
spirits once more. Dear brother, that is impossible. With- 
in your house, loved by you, is the woman my heart goes 
out to. I could not bear to gaze upon her. The sight of 
you, loving and caressing her, would be more than I 
could stand. It would kill me, brother! surely kill me. 
You cannot conceive how much I love her. It would not 
be acting as a brother to dwell beneath your roof with 
that feeling in my breast. I had made up my -mind to that 
even while you were with me, sitting by my bed at Rut- 
gers. So I have determined to seek my fortune elsewhere. 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCilEL. 


143 


where I shall not run the risk of coming in contact with 
either her or yourself. The kind provision made for me by 
Uncle Ralph enables me to do this. I have drawn my 
money from the bank, and when this letter reaches you, 
will be far out on my way to the far West. Don’t grieve 
for me, my brother. Believe me, I have considered well the 
step I am taking, and I believe it is for the best. 

‘T shall not write you again, as I wish to keep my 
whereabouts a secret from you. Forgive me for thus 
wounding your loving heart, Lorraine. Think well over 
it. You will not blame me. Put yourself in my place, 
and remember that I have not the grace of God to sus- 
tain me as you would have. Would you not suffer even 
with that on your side? Say nothing to Ethel. If she asks 
of me say I have gone West to engage in business. It 
will not be a lie. I would not ask you to tell a deliberate 
untruth. 

“Good-by. God bless you. Pray for me. 

“RALPH.” 


144 


CONFESSION OF LORKAINE HERSCHEL. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE SHADOWS FALL. 

The surrounding objects swam before my eyes. I be- 
lieve I should have fallen had I not clutched at the side 
of the doorway and held on tightly for support. Outside 
the bright sun was shining. In my heart black sorrow 
reigned. I so loved him, my brother, and now he was 
lost to me forever. Was I to blame? I asked myself the 
question. Answering conscience replied : “No, you were 
ignorant of the true state of affairs. You have done noth- 
ing wrong.” Still I felt sad, and reproached myself. If 
I had only known of his love for Ethel I would never have 
made her my wife. I would have suppressed my own 
burning passion and cheerfully given her to him — aye, 
performed the ceremony myself, for the sake of their hap- 
piness. For, would she not have been near me, even as 
my brother’s wife? Would not their home have been 
mine? True, she would not have been my wife, but I 
should have had my brother! Now it was too late. What 
had been done could not now be undone. She was my 
wife. My brother had gone from me — gone out upon 
the world to strive to forget, if possible, the love that had 
blighted his youth I 

I mechanically walked out of the postoffice, and took 
the road for home, feeling for the first time in life dissatis- 
fied with myself, reproacliing myself for a thing I could not 
help, feeling somehow or other as if I was to blame. My 


COOTESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


146 


beautiful wife met me at the door with a smile parting her 
lips. 

“Any mail?” she asked, as I entered the cottage. 

“None for you, dear,” I replied, averting my face, to 
hide my sorrow. 

“Was there any for you?” she persisted, coming to my 
side and striving to catch my eye. 

“Yes, one letter,” I answered, looking down upon her. 

“Who was it from? Come; no secrets from your wife,” 
roguishly. 

I clasped her about the waist with one arm and slowly 
walked with her toward the window. 

“And has my little wife no secrets from her husband?” 
I asked her, halting where the sunlight could rest upon her 
face. 

Was I mistaken, or did she tremble slightly? Was 
that look in her beautiful eyes one of fear? 

“Why do you ask me that?” she murmured faintly, turn- 
ing her face from me. 

I hastened to reassure her. 

“An idle question,” I cried. “Do not think any more 
of it.” 

Still I wondered some at her strange behavior. “It is 
nothing,” I assured myself after a moments thought. 
Surely, there was nothing in her past that I did/ not know. 
She could not be the possessor of a secret of any impor- 
tance. 

She gently released 'herself from my embrace and 
sat upon a low rocker near the pots of geraniums. She 
was evidently distressed, but soon overcame her emotion, 
controlling herself by the exercise of her will. 

“You have not yet told me who the letter was from,” 
she said, absently, evidently desirous of changing the 
subject. 


146 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


“It is from Ralph/’ I replied. 

She sprang to her feet, her eyes gleaming, her face 
eager. 

“From Ralph? Is he coming home? Tell me,” stand- 
ing in an attitude of eager expectancy. 

I felt myself wondering again at the sudden change in 
her demeanor the mere mention of his name had brought 
about. Could she have loved him as he loved her? Did 
she still feel that love for him? This thought kept coming 
into my mind. I scouted the idea and drove it from me. 
“Ridiculous,” I said to myself. “Is she not my wife — 
pure and innocent?” 

I drew a low chair close to her side. 

“No, Ralph is not coming home,” I said slowly, con- 
jecturing how I could best tell her why Without revealing 
all. 

A shade of disappointment in her eyes, then a sigh of re- 
lief followed my words. 

“Not coming home? And why? I thought he was 
coming to recruit his strength. You told me so,” she 
murmured. 

“Yes; I know I did, and at that time thought that such 
would be the case, but in his letter to-day he tells me that 
he has withdrawn his money from the bank and is going 
west to seek his fortune. It seems that my brother has 
developed a capricious disposition.” I could not say 
more. Her eyes were fixed upon me, wondering amaze- 
ment depicted therein. 

“Left college! Drawn his money from the bank; gone 
west?” she repeated. 

“So his letter informs me.” 

“And he said nothing of his intentions when you last 
saw him?” 


CONFESSION OF LOKRAINE HERSCHEL. 


147 


“Not one word.” 

“Does he not explain?” 

“His letter informs me of the fact. Do not ask for 
further explanation, dear. Possibly he may enlighten us 
further later on,” I said in a confused, evasive manner. 

She gazed full upon me one moment and then, clasping 
her white hands tightly together, turned and looked out 
of the window. 

I felt that I was not doing right in withholding from 
her the truth Wa^ I not acting a lie? Was not the sin as 
great as the actual telling of it? But I had promised my 
brother. I could not break my word given him that day 
at| Rutgers. If he had not told her of his love why should 
I now inform her of it, show her the consequences of his 
hopeless passion? He did not wish it known. I hardly 
felt it my place tof tell her. And yet I felt at that time that 
it would be best to tell her all, explain fully why he had 
taken this unfortunate and unexpected step, but I put the 
feeling from me, checked the still, small voice within me 
and so, for the first time in my life, broke one of God’s 
commandments, “Thou shalt not lie.” For had I not lied 
in deed, if not in tongue? God judges from( the heart and 
mind, not from the bare utterances of the mouth, for the 
tongue may speak righteousness, while the brain and heart 
are teeming with wickedness. It is not only what we say 
or do, but even what we think that the Almighty holds 
us accountable for. 

My wife still stood at the window, her face pressed 
closely to the pane. Of what was she thinking? I could 
not even imagine. Would that I had possessed the power 
that day to have read her thoughts ! Presently she spoke, 
her voice low and faint. 

“Did he — Ralph— give his address?” 


148 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


“The letter was written from Philadelphia,” I replied. 

“He did not say where he was going?” 

“Only that he was going west.” 

“Not mentioning any particular point?” she persisted. 

“No.” 

“Strange that he should have omitted doing so,” she 
murmured. 

Not strange to me, but I could not say so. How could 
I explain to her why he had not given an address? 

“Perhaps in the hurry of preparing for departure he 
overlooked it,” I suggested. Another intended lie. Again 
I had in my eagerness to assure her forgotten, my vows to 
my Maker. How easily they are forgotten ! 

“Did he say he would write again?” she cried, eagerly 
turning upon me. 

1 hesitated. The more I tried to explain the deeper I 
plunged myself into the mire. What could I say now? 
I must in some way relieve the anxiety which I could 
see oppressed her. So I stammered out, feeling my face 
turning scarlet as I did so: 

“Not exactly, but is it not natural to suppose that a 
brother, loving a foster sister as he loves you, feeling for 
a brother the affection he does for me, would surely in- 
form those who love him of his success) in any new under- 
taking? Your love for your childhood companion makes 
you unnecessarily anxious concerning what seems to you 
the strangeness of his action. I cannot explain more fully. 
P>ut does it not seem so to you?’^ 

I felt that she was studying my face; could see that my 
words had not satisfied her. 

“Yes; one would naturally suppose so,” she replied 
slowly, “unless that brother for some reason wished to 
keep his whereabouts a secret from those loved ones ” 


CONFESSION OF LOKKAINE HERSCHEL. 


149 


Then rapidly she continued: "‘Lorraine, you are keeping 
something from me, something that my heart tells me 
concerns me. Why are you doing this? What is your 
object?” Then, falling on hei' knees by my side, she burst 
into tears. “Tell me, my husband! Tell me, why has 
Ralph taken this step? Don’t keep it from me ! I feel that 
it is my right to know. Remember, dear, we were chil- 
dren together. We loved each other so. Why has he 
turned his back upon us and gone out into the cruel world? 
Some great sorrow has brought this about. He would not 
surely give up his bright future, his home — all, if such 
were not the case. He never was mercenary, never ex- 
pressed a desire for riches. I knew him so well' my hus- 
band; even better, I think, than you. We were of the 
same age, could understand each other so well. Tell me! 
You are not to blame for this? Say you are not, Lor- 
raine. Say you are not!” 

I recoiled almost in horror from the question. Her ve- 
hement grief alarmed me. Never had she acted so before. 
What could it all mean? Surely she could have no sus- 
picion of the truth, and yet it appeared so. 

I gently raised her from her kneeling position and 
folded her in my arms, her head resting upon my breast. 
I could feel the beating of her heart as she sobbed in my 
embrace. Tenderly smoothing her raven locks, I whis- 
pered in her ear: 

“Surely, my darling, you cannot think as you have 
spoken. You surely cannot believe me in any way re- 
sponsible for this action on the part of Ralph. Why, dear, 
he is my brother. I love him almost as much as I love you. 
I feel as badly over his sudden departure as you do. Come, 
dry your tears. I know you love him as a sister. You 
have in the past been inseparable. Why should you im- 


160 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


agine that sorrow has caused him to do this? What sor- 
row, to your knowledge, could be sufficiently great to 
warrant him in taking this step, to separate himself from 
those who love him? Come, dry your tears and accept 
the explanation I have given you, and remember, my dar- 
ling, everything happens for the best.” 

With a sudden impulsive movement she released herself 
from my embrace and stood erect before me. Hastily re- 
moving the traces of tears from her eyes, she cried : 

“Do you believe that?” 

“What, Ethel?” 

“What you have just said — 'Everything happens for the 
best?^ ” 

“God in his goodness would not will it otherwise,” I re- 
plied solemnly. 

“Then you think it is for the best that Ralph has gone, 
removed himself from home and friends, without even 
coming to say good-by?” 

I winced slightly, but replied: 

“As God rules the world and governs the minds of all, 
I must accept it as He wills it.” 

She sighed, a deep, convulsive sigh. “And you would 
have me believe this?” she muttered, her white teeth set, 
a strange look upon her face. 

“I would not have you doubt the wisdom of the Al- 
mighty,” I replied. 

“Be it so. I shall remember your words and perhaps 
some day you will recall them. Still, I believe you are 
keeping something from me. Do you think it for the best 
to do so?” 

“I know it, my darling, I know it,” burst from my lips. 
Her strange look, her words oppressed me. I felt as if 
some dark shadow, some ominous cloud was gathering 


C0NFEJ5IS10N OF LOKKAINE IIEKSCHEL. 


161 


over our happy home, a cloud that might burst and 
wreck my peaceful existence. 

“Then you admit that you are withholding something 
from me?” she cried. 

I saw (now too late) that I had made an unpardonable 
mistake. I could not reply to her, merely bowed my head. 

She came to my side. Upon her knees, in a pleading 
tone, she murmured. 

“Tell me, my husband. I beg of you, do not burden 
yourself with a secret which will cause unhappiness be- 
tween us. I am your wife; I have a right to know. Tell 
me!” 

“I cannot, I cannot. I have given my word that I 
would not,” I cried aloud in my agony of spirit. 

“Given your word? To whom — Ralph? I cannot com- 
prehend your action, my husband. You, the soul of truth 
and honor, pledge yourself to deceive your wife? I know 
now that this action on the part of Ralph concerns me. I 
must know all. Come. You need not explain. You have 
failed to satisfy me with your former explanation. You 
have the letter that will tell me all I wish to know. Where 
is the letter? Give me the letter.” 

I could not hold out longer. I believe I should have 
gone mad. My brain was reeling. I could feel my blood 
surging to my head. Rising to my feet I tore the letter 
from my pocket and gave it to her, then rushed to the door 
and threw it wide open to admit God’s fresh air. I knew 
that she was rapidly reading the lines of my brother’s fare- 
well to me, but I could not turn and face her. I felt weak 
and leaned heavily against the door frame to keep from 
falling. A low cry from Ethel, then the sound of a body 
falling upon the floor caused me to turn. She had fainted ! 

I hurried to her side, my strength returning to me in that 


152 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


one brief moment. Stooping, I bent over her. She was 
breathing heavily, her eyes tightly closed, her teeth firmly 
set. In her hand she clutched the letter, now all crumpled 
and crushed in her convulsive clasp. 

“My darling,” I murmured, hardly knowing what to do 
in my anxiety. “Open your eyes, my precious one. Look 
up. It is I, Lorraine, your husband.” 

A faint sigh and the beautiful eyes unclosed and stared 
up at me. The white lips slowly regained their color as 
the blood rushed into them. I raised her head upon my 
knee, her long, black hair becoming loosened as I did 
so, and falling in luxuriant masses to the floor. 

“You feel better now?” I cried. 

The beautiful eyes slowly filled with tears, the swelling 
bust rose and fell, and from the parted lips came the cry, 
pitiful, agonizing, a cry that went to my heart and re- 
mained there : 

“He loved me, and for my sake has left home and 
friends. Oh, Ralph, why did you not tell me before it was 
too late? Why did you keep it from me?” 

I felt my brain reeling. A blur came before my eyes. 
My heart seemed to rise in my throat. In that one brief 
moment, from that one agonized cry from my half-un- 
conscious wife, I learned the truth. It flashed upon my 
mind like the vivid lightning ! 

She loved my brother, even as he loved her! 

She had loved him when she married me. 

A groan escaped my lips. I could not repress it. Upon 
my heart fell a dark shadow, the surrounding objects 
became indistinct and I became unconscious ! 


CONFESSION OF LORKAINE HERSCHEL. 


163 


CHAPTER XX. 

DARKNESS. 

Upon returning to life and consciousness I found my 
wife bending over me, her face pale and distressed, her 
long, glossy hair hanging in disorder about her. 

“Thank heaven! he has recovered,” I heard her mur- 
mur. 

At first I wondered to find myself lying upon the floor, 
my shirt loosened at the neck, the white, frightened face 
of Ethel bending over me. But in one moment it all re- 
turned to me — her words, her actions — and I closed my 
eyes, half wishing that God would remove me from it all, 
let me die. The pain at my heart distressed me so; my 
brain throbbed and ached so terribly. 

“Lorraine, open your eyes. You frighten me!” I heard 
her cry. 

I mechanically raised my hand and passed it over my 
burning eyes. I felt that it would relieve me if the tears 
would come. 'But no ! My eyes remained dry and tearless, 
although my heart was filled with sorrow even to the 
bursting of it, it seemed to me. 

I slowly arose to my feet, she standing, gazing at me, 
her hands clasped, alarm and fear depicted upon her 
white face. 

“You are better?” she murmured. 

I sank into the depths of an arm chair and struggled 


154 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


to compose myself before replying. Then I said, without 
looking at her: 

“Yes, I am better.” 

She came to me and knelt by my side. 

“You are ill, dear husband. You never fainted before.” 

I made no immediate reply. I could not. I felt that she 
was ignorant of having spoken those words; did not know 
that she had struck the blow that had robbed me of con- 
sciousness and happiness in one brief moment. Recover- 
ing from her unconscious state, the words that dwelt in 
her heart had burst from her lips without her knowledge. 

I determined to keep them from her. I would not re- 
proach her. She was my wife and I felt it my duty to bring 
only happiness to her heart. 

“I am weak,” I murmured, taking her hand. “I must 
not study so hard.” 

My eyes roved aimlessly about the room, finally rest- 
ing upon the crumpled letter — Ralph’s letter, which lay 
upon the floor. 

She observed the glance and averted her eyes. 

“You have read it?” I said gently. 

She bowed her head. 

“You know now why Ralph has separated himself 
from us?” 

Yes; I know all now,” still averting her face, speaking 
in a low tone. 

“You know now why he wished it kept from you ^he 

did not wish to( grieve you?” 

‘‘Yes, yes, I know,” removing her hand from mine and 
nervously clasping it with the other. 

I saw that she was distressed. I felt weary, heartsore. 
I deemed it best to bring this painful interview to a close; 
so, rising slowly to my feet, she following my example, 
I said, resting one hand upon her sihoulder; 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


155 


“Then we will say no more about it, dear. We will not 
be able to forget it, I know; but we will never renew this 
painful subject. God will protect our brother and guide 
his footsteps aright. He knows what is best for us all, and 
unto his better judgment and protecting care we will leave 
our future.” 

The tears came to her eyes. I kissed them away and left 
her, going to my study. 

The evening shades were slowly gathering. Already' 
the gloom of coming night darkened the room, rendering 
the surrounding objects indistinct and vague. Lighting 
my lamp I sank into my favorite easy chair and gave my- 
self up to my bitter thoughts. 

My wife loved my brother! A bitter pang contracted 
my heart, as this fact struck upon the chords of memory. 
She had ever loved him. This I firmly believed now. I 
had been blind not to have observed it before. Her 
strange hesitation when I had asked her to become my 
wife, her hysterical sobs and frequent spells of melancholy, 
all returned to me with convincing force. She loved him, 
and if he had but plucked up sufficient courage to have 
told her of his passion she would now be his wife, instead 
of mine. Why had he not done so? I could not answer 
the question that came to my mind. Why had she married 
me, loving him? I arose and paced the floor, my mind 
beset with thoughts which I could not answer, my heart 
throbbing dully with a sense of pain which I could scarcely 
control. 

“God give me strength to bear it all,” I muttered, falling 
upon my knees. For an hour I remained there in earnest 
communion with my Master, crying aloud at times to the 
God whose servant I was. I felt better when I arose to 
my feet. Earnest prayer accomplishes much. A faint 


156 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


tap upon my door reached my ears. I opened it. My wife 
stood upon the threshold. How pale she looked. She had 
been weeping. 

“Come in, dear,” I murmured. 

“It is growing late, Lorraine, and tea is all prepared,” 
she said, without moving. 

How could I eat? But I would make a pretense of par- 
taking of the food her hands had prepared; so, assuming 
a cheerful demeanor, I said: 

“Well; I must ask your forgiveness for keeping you 
waiting for me. I was so busy that I never once thought of 
tea.” 

Ah! I had been busy — busy wrestling with my sorrow. 

I led her to the table and, seating her, assumed my ac- 
customed place. It was but a sorry pretence of eating, 
for both of us. The food almost choked me, and I could 
see that she ate but a few mouthfuls. It was a relief to 
me when it was over. I know it was to her. 

The tea things cleared away, I brought a book from 
my library and read aloud to her, as was my usual cus- 
tom, until bed time. She sat opposite me, her head rest- 
ing upon her hand, her eyes fixed upon the table. I know 
that not one word reached her ear. She listened apathetic- 
ally, but heard nothing. At ten o’clock I closed the 
volume and kised her good-night. 

“May God bless you and grant you sweet reoose,” I 
murmured as I pressed my lips to her brow. A deep 
drawn sigh was her only answer. 

I can recall to my mind her sad, white face, her dejected 
manner, her sorrowful, yearning eyes even now. Only 
pity for 'her dwelt in my heart as I saw her slowly leave the 
room, going to her apartment. God knows I pitied her! 
At that moment I would have sacrificed all that life held 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 157 

dear to bring the gladsome light of happiness to her eyes, 
to cause merry, ringing laughter to take the place of the 
sighs that racked her heart. 

But it was not in my power; so, extinguishing the lamp, 
I made my way to my apartment, there to toss and pitch 
the live-long night upon my couch, to 'arise in the early 
morning weary and unrefreshed. I slept none that night, 
and when my eyes rested upon the haggard face of my 
wife I felt that she had also passed the long hours in wake- 
fulness, perhaps in distress, thinking of him. 

But why linger longer with these sad memories? 
Enough has been told; there is yet much to relate. The 
days came and departed, weeks lengthened into months, 
until nearly a year had passed and gone. Then came a 
change — a change that brightened our lives, that brought 
•a ray of sunshine to pierce the gloom and clouds that had 
lingered so long over our hearts. A child was born to us — 
a little girl ! 

How well I remember the feeling of pride that perme- 
ated my being, as I stood by my wife’s bed side and gazed 
fondly into the gray, wondering eyes of the little one, and 
thanked God that I had been blessed withf an angel’s visit. 
With what untold affection the mother gathered the in- 
fant to her breast. I shall ever remember that scene ; it is 
indelibly impressed upon my heart. My child! How 
much better could I comprehend the love of the great 
Father for all his children when I felt my affection for this 
one! 

If mortal love can be so great, what must the infinite 
love of God be? 

The child brought us closer together than we had been 
for many months. I saw with joy the roses return to 
Ethel’s pale cheeks. Her liquid eyes again became in- 


158 


CONFESSION OF LORKAINE HERSCHEL. 


fused with happiness. Her voice broke forth in song once 
more and I was divinely happy. 

The months passed by. Happy days, in which I lived 
a new existence! Then there came another change. A 
strange melancholy took possession of my darling. I 
puzzled my brain for an explanation, hesitating to ask her. 
Could it be that she was again thinking of him? For weeks 
I watched her anxiously, exercising great caution lest she 
should discover my anxiety. She grew capricious — as 
changeable as the moods of Dame Nature in early spring. 

One day, apparently happy, the next sad and tear- 
ful. What had occurred to bring about this change? I 
could not comprehend it. Such conduct was entirely for- 
eign to her natural disposition. She had never, even in 
early childhood, been capricious. 

I gave up trying to explain the matter, trusting to time 
to overcome it. 

Our child (to whom we had given the name of Rachel) 
had reached the age of four months when the time for 
the annual conference came about. It was to be held in 
Philadelphia, and was to last four days. Of course, it 
would be necessary for me to attend. 

‘T will take Ethel and the baby with me,” I thought. 
“The change will do them both good.” 

I sought my wife and informed her of my plan. To my 
great surprise and sorrow she objected to accompanying 
me. 

“But why do you not wish to attend?” I questioned her. 

“The weather is so changeable. Baby might contract 
cold,” she replied . 

I reasoned with her, tried to show her that her fears upon 
that score were groundless, but all without effect. She 
did not wish to go, and I could not move her. So, pack- 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


159 


ing my valise, I bade them both farewell, and took the 
train for Philadelphia, praying God to watch over them 
during mv enforced absence. 

There was much business to attend to, many changes 
to make, and the conference extended two days over the 
usual time. Beginning on Monday, it was not until Satur- 
day that it was over, and I was free to return home. The 
train left the city at a late hour, somewhere between eleven 
and twelve o’clock at night I could not possibly reach 
home before daylight. Several of my colleagues pressed 
me to remain with them over the Sabbath, but I was eager 
and, anxious to return to my wife and child, and my con- 
gregation would expect me to preach for them on the mor- 
row. So, thanking them all kindly, I hurried to the depot, 
arriving but a few minutes before train time. I managed 
to catch a few winks of sleep as the train rushed along, but 
they afforded but little rest, and it was with a feeling of 
thankfulness that I heard the brakeman call out the name 
of the station nearest my home. I alighted from the train 
in the gray light of early morning and started briskly 
toward my residence. 

A walk of thirty minutes brought me to the gate. The 
sun was just making his appearance from behind* the hills, 
looking bright and cheerful, bringing life and gladness to 
the earth as I opened the gate and approached the house. 

All was silent within as I inserted my key in the lock and 
opened the door. 

“They are both sleeping soundly,” I muttered, crossing 
the room softly. “I will not awaken them. Let them 
sleep. Sweet repose is a blessing, and babies are cross 
when they are awakened out of a sound sleep.” 

But I could not resist the temptation to open the door 
and gaze upon them sleeping innocently together. So, 


160 


CONFESSION OF LOKf'AINE IIERSCIIEL. 


approaching the room occupied by my wife, I cautiously 
turned the knob of the door and opened it. 

It was empty ! 

My heart rose in my throat. 

“Pshaw,” I muttered, repressing the feeling which the 
sight of the unoccupied bed had aroused, “Ethel has used 
my room during my absence. It is upon the south side 
of the house and warmer than her own.” 

So, noiselessly closing the door, I made my way to my 
own apartment. 

Like the other, it was empty and desolate ! 

I staggered back, clutching at the knob of the door. 

“Where can she be?” I muttered, hoarsely. “What can 
this mean?” 

An overpowering conviction that all was not right 
swept over me. I could feel my heart beating violently, 
my blood curdling with horror. Madly I rushed through 
the deserted rooms, with eager haste, aroused by the 
thought that she might be taking an early morning walk. 
I searched the grounds, even running wildly, hatless, 
some distance along the road in either direction. Without 
result! Neither my wife nor child was to be seen. 

I re-entered the house, nearly distraught with sicken- 
ing terror. As I passed the kitchen door I saw my face 
in the large, old-fashioned looking-glass that hung on 
the wall beside it. I recoiled in fright from the reflection 
of my own countenance. I looked like a wild man. My 
hair was in disorder, my coat thrown open, my collar and 
cravat disarranged, while my eyes seemed fit to burst 
from their sockets. I shuddered and turned from the 
sight, and once more crossed the room and entered my 
wife’s deserted apartment. As I turned the knob I glanced 
involuntarily at the little clock upon the mantel. I saw 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


161 


that it had run down. Its busy little pendulum was hang- 
ing motionless in the case. It was an eight-day clock. I 
had wound it up myself the Saturday before leaving home. 
Either Ethel or myself had always attended to this each 
Saturday. The clock had not been wound the previous 
day. My wife had neglected this duty. 

Upon my mind was forced the conviction that she had 
not been in the house the day before, that she had not 
been at home. 

Where could she have been? Where could she be now? 

With this awful thought surging through my brain, 
with the answer trying to force itself upon my mind, the 
terrible reply, “She has left her home,” I rushed madly 
into her chamber. How peaceful it looked. The bed, 
white and untouched, the simple womanly adornments, 
not much in themselves, but the beautihers oi liome 
when touched by a woman’s delicate hand, made the spot 
appear almost a holy one to me. Yet she was not there. 
The shrine was before me, but the idol had departed. 

I sank into her low rocking chair, the chair she had 
often used when at nightfall she had rocked our little one 
to sleep. Dropping my head into my clasped hands, I 
burst into tears, the cry of conviction ringing in my ears : 
“She 'has left her home ! She has left her home !” 

I sprang to my feet, dashing the tears from my eyes. 

“Left her home!” I cried aloud in answer to the accu- 
sation of my soul. “Why has she left her home? Why 
should she do this? Have I not been kind to her — a loving 
true husband?” 

In reply came a repetition of the taunting cry. It mad- 
dened me. I tore down the bed clothing, scarcely know- 
ing what Lwas doing, perhaps vainly, madly hoping that 
she was concealed beneath them. I turned to the dress- 


162 


COXFESSIOX OF LOF.RAINE HERSCHEL. 



CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


163 


ing case, stared at, myself in dumb amazement as again 
the mirror reflected my face. 

“Why should she do such a thing?” I continued to 
mutter. 

“Gone! my wife, my child — gone from me without ex- 
planation, without cause !” 

I laughed aloud — the blood-curdling laugh of coming 
madness. I tore open the drawers in the bureau. Ah! a 
letter, and adressed to me in her handwriting. Perhaps 
this was the explanation, would tell me why my home was 
left deserted — desolate. The envelope was not sealed. I 
removed the inclosed sheet and with trembling hands 
spread it out before me upon the dressing case. I have 
that letter in my possession now. Often have I read the 
lines over and over, often dumbly wondered how she, my 
wife, could have written them. I copy the cruel words: 

“Lorraine — When you read this I shall be far away from 
you. You will say, ‘Why have you taken this step?^ The 
answer, though it may break your heart, I must give. I 
do not love you! Let that suffice. You once told me that 
God ruled the hearts of all, that everything happens for 
the best. Then, that God has ruled my heart against you. 
My departure will prove for the best for you. Oh, you 
cannot know what it is to drag out an existence where love 
has no place in the heart. I have vainly striven to do my 
duty. I have tried to overcome the feeling which has 
been oppressing me for so long. Useless! I have not 
been able to accomplish it. When our child was born 
my heart went out to you. I felt for you the love of a wife 
because you were her father, but as the days passed that 
feeling grew less apparent, and at last disappeared en- 
tirely. I have been considering this step for many weeks. 
It was only when you left me that I determined upon it. 


164 


CONFESSION OF LORKAJNE HERSCHEL. 


I shall take our child with me. She is of my sex. I am 
best capable of caring for her. I almost hesitate when I 
think of the sorrow, the despair that my action will bring 
to your heart, for you have ever been kind and good to 
me, Lorraine, but it must be. Forget me ! Drive my image 
from your heart. I am but a woman! I have not your 
strength of mind or character. 

“Do not search for me. I cannot tell you where I am 
going. I hope you will never discover me. 

“Farewell! ETHEL.’^ 

With a wild cry I threw the letter from me. I paced the 
floor like a madman, biting my lips until they bled. In 
my heart came an overpowering feeling of rage. I had 
never experienced such a sensation before. It shocked 
me. I tried to drive it from me, but it refused to be quieted. 

“She does not love me,” I cried, gnashing my teeth. 
“She has taken my child, and she says God has ruled her 
heart! Base woman, thus to bruise my heart! Perfidious 
wretch, to crush my soul, to almost shake my faith in my 
Maker!” 

Like one bereft of reason I rushed madly through the 
house, overturning chairs, as they opposed me, tearing the 
table cloth from the table, and casting it from me. I felt 
that I was going mad. I prayed God that it might be so. 

“But I will find her,” I cried, standing before the flower 
stand, where the geraniums were blooming. “I will find 
her! Not to beseech her to return, but to force from her 
my child. She is of my blood. She will love her father. 
But where has she gone?” 

I looked about me as if for an answer. Where could she 
have gone? She had no money, unless (and the thought 
filled my heart with fresh rage) she has taken my money 
from the desk in my study. I strode rapidly toward the 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


165 


door and threw it open. Yes; the desk was unlocked, 
the private drawer, where I kept my money, open. The 
moneys gone ! She had not drawn upon her own money in 
bank. That might have created talk, as she had never 
done so before. She had left me, fled from my house and 
taken my money to assist her in her flight. 

“Thief!” I almost shrieked, turning from the desk. As 
I did so my eyes fell upon the open Bible lying upon the 
table before me. 

God’s book! 

A nameless terror took possession of me. I had for- 
gotten my vows, forgotten myself! Was this the way to 
bear up under affliction? I fell upon my knees, my teeth 
chattering, my eyes filled with tears of contrition. 

“Father, forgive me. O God, forgive me,” I cried over 
and over again. In my misery I beat my head upon the 
floor, my hands clutching at the carpet. One of them fell 
upon a sheet of paper lying there. I grasped it tightly and 
rose to my feet. In the bright light of the sun bursting 
in through the open window of the adjoining apartment 
I glanced at the paper I held. 

It was a letter ! A letter in Ralph’s hanwriting ! 

“How came this here?” I gasped. I read it over. There 
was not much to read, but enough to turn my blood to ice, 
sufficient to drive me back to the verge of madness. This 
is what I read: 

“My darling — I have struggled in vain against myself. 
I have prayed to God to help me. I cannot stand it longer. 
No answer conies to my prayers. My heart still craves 
for you, cries out for you. Come to me, no matter what 
follows! You are mine in soul. You must be mine in the 
flesh! RALPH.” 

I felt myself turning weak and faint. I vainly essayed 


166 


CONFESSION OF LORKAINE HERSCHEL. 


to reach the bed-room near me. I felt a heavy pressure 
upon my brain, a dark cloud slowly settled over me. I 
remember gasping out my brother's name, and then knew 
no more. The darkness of grim despair — awful, hor- 
rible — settled down upon me. 


CONFEtt^lON OF LOlUIAli^E .liEKSCHEL. 167 


CHAPTER XXI 

“ VENGEANCE IS MINE.” 

“There, he is coming to,” I heard a familiar voice say. 
I opened my eyes. They rested upon the face of the vil- 
lage doctor. Glancing about the room, I could see that 
quite a crowd of my neighbors had assembled, curiosity, 
wonder, pity depicted upon their several faces. 

“You have had a severe nervous shock,” the doctor 
went on to say, seeing that I was conscious. “You did 
not make an appearance at church, as usual, and so several 
of your congregation took it upon themselves to call at 
the house to see why you had failed to come. They found 
you lying upon the floor of the room adjoining in a dead 
faint, and so sent for me. You will be all right in a day or 
so, but you must remain perfectly quiet until I give you 
permission to get up.” 

I nodded my head, my eyes upon the faces of those who 
filled the room. It all returned to me in one brief moment. 
At first bewildered, my brain gradually grew clearer. I 
remembered my wife had gone from me, taking my child 
— the letter, the other one from Ralph, it all returned to 
me. Did these people know? Were their looks of pity for 
my sudden illness or compassion for my loss? 

“We were surprised to find you alone,” the physician 
went on to state. “Your wife — she is not at home.” 

From the tone of his voice I gathered that he knew noth- 
ing, Perchance they had none of them seen the letter. 


168 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


^‘No; she has gone upon a visit,” I muttered faintly. 

“If you will give me her address I will communicate 
with her. It is to be regretted that she is not at home,” 
the doctor continued. 

“No; never mind. Do not alarm her. I will soon be 
all right,” I cried hastily. 

The worthy physician frowned slightly, his brows- con- 
tracting. 

“Some one must nurse you,” he began. I interrupted 
him. 

“No, no; it is not necessary. I have lost much rest of 
late. Leave me to myself. I will recover in a few hours. 

I need no one.” 

“I don't like to leave you alone,” remonstrated the 
doctor. 

“You will be conferring a favor by so doing,” I broke in 
faintly. 

“Very well; as you desire it, we will leave you. I shall 
visit you again later in the day. In this glass,” referring 
to a tumbler half filled with a colorless liquid, which stood 
on a table near the bed, “you will find a composing 
draught. I would advise you to take it, and rest.” 

I nodded my head in reply, and closed my eyes. A few 
words to the members of my congregation who were 
present, and the doctor left the room, followed by them. 
I was alone! 

Waiting for five minutes to assure myself of this fact, 
I sat erect in bed, then, throwing the coverings from 
me, sprang out upon the floor. I found that some one 
had taken off my coat and vest, but my lower habiliments 
had not been removed. I found my other garments lying 
across the foot of the bed and hastily assumed tliem, to- 
gether with my shoes. I felt weak. I had eaten nothing 


CONFESSION OP LOKRAINE HERSCHEL. 


169 


since tea the night before. Consulting my watch, I found 
the hour nearly one, and, strange to say, I felt ravenously 
hungry. The terrible shock had not deprived me of appe- 
tite at any rate. I did not feel like myself. There seemed 
to be in my heart an eager yearning to find my wife. I 
felt no love for her. My heart no longer felt bruised and 
sore from the wound she had inflicted, rather hard and 
cold as the thought of her returned to me. 

I felt as though I could crush her beneath my heel ! 

I hated her. I yearned for vengeance. And he, my 
brother no longer — my blood surged to my temples, 
nearly suffocating me with its hot impetuosity as I recalled 
the words of his letter to my wife. 

'T shall follow her,” I muttered through my set teeth. 
‘T shall come up with them and then let them beware! I 
shall have no mercy for them — they have shown none to 
me I” 

I walked out into the dining-room. The chairs were 
thrown right and left, here and there, as I had cast them 
from me in the violence of my mad griek The table cloth 
lay in a disordered heap near the table. I stooped and 
picked it up. As I did so I saw the letter from my false 
brother lying upon the floor beneath it. I understood then 
why the villagers had not seen it; the table covering had 
hidden it from their gaze. Without glancing at the words 
written there, I folded the letter and thrust it in the pocket 
of my coat; then going into the kitchen, began a search 
for food. I found all that I required, and, sitting at the 
kitchen table, I ate ravenously, tearing the cold meat in 
shreds with my teeth and fingers, munching it* more like a 
wild beast than a human being. I washed it all down with 
a cup of pure cold water. I asked no grace. I did not call 
upon God to bless that meal. I felt that He had forgotten 
me, had turned from me. 


170 


CONFESSION OF LOKRAINE HERSCHEL. 


The thoughts that dwelt in my mind, possessed my 
being, were not godly ones. 

They were of revenge! Of retaliation upon those — 
once beloved, now hated. They had crushed my heart. I 
would crush them to earth. I would destroy them! -No, 
frenzy actuated me. My brain was clear. • I knew what I 
was doing. I calmly reviewed the situation and methodic- 
ally arranged my plans. 

I must first find Ralph ! I could not call him brother. 
His address must be upon the letter I had found. I took 
it from my pocket. No address. “Ah, but the enevelope,” 
I cried. I must search for that.” I arose quickly from 
the table, wiping my mouth upon a napkin which\ I found 
upon one of the shelves of the cupboard, and began my 
search. I must find it. All depended upon it; the post 
mark upon that would reveal to me the place where she 
had gone, where he dwelt. I had found the letter in the 
study. I might also find the envelope there. I searched 
it carefully, even ransacking the drawers where my own 
private papers were kept, but no envelope. Then I went 
into her room. I was not any more successful there. My 
brows knit in thought, wondering where it could be, I ap- 
proached the window of the dining-room — that window 
she had so often gazed through. A glad cry escaped me. 
Lying near the flower stand, crushed and torn, lay a scrap 
of buff paper, but my heart told me it was that which I 
sought, and it spoke truly. It was the envelope, creased 
and torn, but bearing in legible characters the mark I 
wished to see — ^the post mark of the place where the letter 
had been mailed. I smoothed out the creas.es and read: 
“Union City, Mich.” So he had gone to Michigan, many 
miles from me, but I would have followed if the mark 
had been “Hades,” and the father of sin had stood guard 


CONFESSION OF LOKRAINE llEKSCHEL. 


171 


before the gates to keep me from entering. I was fixed in 
my determination. No earthly power could have stayed 
me. 

I put the envelope carefully away and entered my study. 
For an hour I wrote, a letter to my lawyer, in which I in- 
formed him that I had gone upon a trip for the benefit of 
my health ; one to my banker, instructing him to address 
me at Chicago with letters of credit upon some responsible 
banking firm at that place; a third to the bishop of my 
circuit, explaining my absence from duty, pleading ill- 
health as my excuse. These I sealed, addressed and 
stamped. I had just finished when I heard the outer door 
open, then the sound of footsteps in the adjoining room. 
I stepped to the door of my study and saw the doctor, a 
puzzled expression upon his honest countenance, just 
leaving my sleeping apartment. 

“Ah, there you are,” he grunted. “I believe I instructed 
you to remain in bed until I gave you permission to rise.” 

“I felt strong. I did not think it necessary to obey you,” 
I replied. 

He placed his finger upon my pulse. 

“You are feverish,” he declared. “You are acting un- 
wisely, my dear sir.” 

I smiled, in spite of myself, at his professional anxiety, 
but informed him that I felt all right, and objected to re- 
turning to my bed. He remonstrated with me, but, see- 
ing I was resolved to use my own judgment, ceased, 
wrote me a prescription, accepted the money I offered 
him as payment for his services, and left me. 

The sun was setting in the west as, valise in hand, I 
turned the key in the lock of the outer door of my cot- 
tage and walked slowly toward the gate. A pang of re- 
gret that I must thus turn my back upon that home, where 


172 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


I had been so happy, struck upon my heart, and a sigh 
welled up from my breast as I turned in the road, and 
looked my last farewell upon the vine-covered cottage, 
but I compressed my lips and overcame the feeling. Hap- 
piness had gone from me forever. I must now live for 
vengeance. The glorious orb of day had been rising from 
the hills when I had first seen my home that morning, the 
same bright king of the heavens was sinking to rest in 
the west as I turned my back upon it. Happiness had 
dwelt in my heart at his rising. Grim despair, hatred, had 
driven out the peace and left misery, unhappiness, to cast 
its shadows o’er my life, as the clouds of darkness must 
soon o’ershadow the earth, made glad by his presence, 
when his radiant face sank from sight behind the western 
hills, to be seen no more until another day had come. 

That night I occupied a berth in a sleeping car en route 
to Detroit. I had begun my search for revenge. 

All the next day and the following night I rode; at 
twenty minutes past three on the second day I arrived at 
my destination. I had been obliged to change cars twice, 
once at Detroit, once at Jackson, Mich., Union City being 
on a branch road. 

I refused to allow myself to be conveyed to either of the 
hotels in the little town. I must first inquire of the station 
agent if Ralph really made this place his home or if he had 
merely mailed the letter there, living elsewhere. 

The crowd had departed and I was alone upon the plat- 
form, when I approached the agent. 

“Excuse me, sir. Is there a gentleman residing here or 
in the neighborhood by the name of Dean, Ralph Dean?” 
I inquired. 

The man pursed his lips, hesitated a moment and then 
replied : 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


173 


“Not that I know of, sir. Can you describe him to me?” 

I gave an accurate description of my half brother. 

“What did you say his name was?” he asked curiously. 

“Ralph Dean?” 

“There is no one by that name living here, but there is 
a man answering your description living in that house over 
yonder,” indicating a large frame house, painted white, 
about one-fourth of a mile distant. 

“What is the name of the man who occupies that 
house?” I inquired, my heart beating eagerly. 

“Royce Dane,” he replied. 

“It must be the same,” my heart told me. Yes; the ini- 
tials were the same. It must be him. I thanked the man 
and turned to leave the station, when he vouchsafed fur- 
ther information, information that fell as a blow upon me, 
and convinced me that Royce Dane and Ralph Dean were 
one and the same. 

“He has been living here for a year or more. Every one 
thought him a single man, until two days ago a lady with 
a little baby came in on the evening train and inquired for 
him. She was his wife.” 

I seized his arm and clutched it tightly. So fierce was 
my grip that the fellow winced. 

“His wife?” I hoarsely cried. 

“Yes, his wife. You are pinching me pretty tight, 
mister.” 

I released him. 

“Pardon me, sir,” I murmured. “I was not aware that 
I was grapsing your arm so tightly. But tell me, did she, 
this woman, his wife, you say — did she ask for Royce 
Dane?” 

“Of course, she did. Who else should she have asked 
for?” 


174 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


‘True/’ I turned away. She then knew of his assumed 
name. The letter I had found had not been the first. He 
had written her before. Ah! it all came to me. It must 
have been the receipt of a letter from him (possibly the 
first one) that had wrought the change in her so ^oon after 
the birth of our child. She had possibly driven him from 
her mind until that letter had reached her, to rekindle the 
smoldering flame, to cause it to burst forth with renewed 
vigor. Yes, that must have been it. It seemed plain to 
me now. 

I heard the voice of tlie station agent behind me. 

“Say,” he cried; “if I ain’t asking too much — is this man 
the one you are looking for?” 

“No,” I replied. He looked at me curiously, and en- 
tered the station. 

I walked slowly toward the town, keeping of¥ the prin- 
cipal streets as much as possible. I feared meeting him be- 
fore my allotted time. Night must come before I made my 
visit to his house. All deeds of darkness are done under 
the friendly cover of night. I reached the hotel without 
being noticed by any one particularly. There was nothing 
peculiar in my personal appearance. I had put aside my 
clerical dress, assuming a plain costume of gray tweed. 
I did not wish to attract attention. I wished to be as 
were other people. I felt that my heart those days was 
blacker than any of them; yet I considered myself in the 
right. I was but an instrument of justice, righting my 
own wrongs. 

The hours dragged themselves slowly along. Time 
seemed to fly upon leaden wings, but night came at last. 
The sun disappeared from sight behind the trees of a 
neighboring forest. The shadows slowly gathered, dark- 
ness fell upon the earth. From a distant marsh came 


CONFESSION, OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


175 


the harsh croaking of a multitude of frogs, the insects 
of the night adding their chirping and twittering to the 
chorus. I left the hotel by a side door. No one saw me. 
I intended to return therQ and sleep that night after it was 
all over. I felt that I could rest in peace, with my venge- 
ance fulfilled, my deed of justice accomplished. I gave 
no thought to the consequences that must follow. I cared 
not what became of me when it was all over. 

With a quick, nervous step I hurried along the deserted 
road leading to the station. Arriving there I sprang over 
a fence and crossed a field in the direction of the w^hite 
house, the residence of Royce Dane, as the station agent 
had informed me. All was silent as I threw open the gate 
and stealthily approached the house. There were no dogs, 
nothing to warn them that the avenger was upon them! 
The only sign of life about the place was the subdued light 
of a lamp penetrating through the heavy curtains, which 
protected the windows of a room upon the ground floor 
to the right of the principal entrance, the door that was 
reached by the path leading from the gate. 

“They are there together,’’ I muttered, creeping toward 
the window nearest the door. From within I could hear 
the sound of voices. I listened eagerly -for some minutes, 
and then, faint, pitiful, reaching my heart, came an in- 
fant’s wail. 

“]My child,” I gasped, falling back from the window; 
“my own darling, so near me and yet so far from me 1” 

But I could not remain longer idle. I had much to ac- 
complish. My breath came short and hard, as I thought 
of what I had come to do. I crawled toward the door. I 
turned the knob. 

It gave to my touch. It was not locked. I entered the 
hall. “Surely Providence is on my side,” I murmured. 


176 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCIIEL. 


Stealthily I approached the door of the room, the only 
obstacle between us. Through the key-hole I could see the 
light shining, casting one bright ray of brilliancy out into 
the darkness. The murmur of voices reached my ears — 
a deep, heavy masculine tone, which I recognized at once ; 
then the soft murmur of a woman’s voice. Hesitating no 
longer, I boldly crossed the intervening space and threw 
open the door! 

They \\iere before me! 

They were sitting side by side, the cradle, in which slept 
my little one, near them. 

I stood for one moment in the doorway, with the bright 
light shining full upon me ; then, taking three strides, that 
brought me to the center of the room, I halted and fixed 
my eyes upon them. 

With a wild cry of terror the woman arose to her feet 
and cast herself upon her knees before me, while he, the 
one I had loved, the brother, false at heart as he was fair 
of face, sat as if spell-bound. 

“So I have found you !” I cried hoarsely, my voice sound- 
ing strange and unreal. “I have found you !” 

“Lorraine, my husband,” she wailed, clasping me about 
the knees, “hear me. I can explain.” 

I roughly threw her from me. 

“Do not dare to touch me, thou accursed one! Turn 
your fair, false face to the dust! Humble yourself before 
God as you do before me, your injured husband, and pray 
to Him for the forgiveness which I cannot grant ! And 
you, my brother! Thank God, my father was not your 
father. My mother’s blood flows in your veins, but my 
father’s manly spirit forms no part of you ! I came here 
to wreak a terrible vengeance upon you both! Do you 
wish to hear me? Shall I tell you what I am going to do? 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


177 


<v*.' . >. 




178 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE IIERSCHEL. 


I am going to take from you the life which you know so 
little how to use! I am going to send your guilty souls 
before that God who gave you that life and who now 
claims it! Do you heaume? I am going to kill you!” 

Rising to her feet, her raven hair flowing back over her 
shoulders, the woman recoiled from me. Then, seeing the 
fiendish glare in my eyes, she gave vent to a succession of 
piercing screams. I sprang upon her, the devil in me urg- 
ing me on. 

“Cease those screams,” I harshly commanded. 

At that moment I felt myself seized from behind. He 
had aroused himself and sought to overpower me. 

“Release me!” I commanded. “Curse you, release me!” 

“Lorraine, you are mad. I know we have wronged 
you, but do not attempt to stain your hands with the 
blood of your wife. She is the mother of your child!” 

His words goaded me to wild delirium. I tore myself 
from his detaining clasp. I uttered curses upon them 
both. Oh, God forgive me for that terrible night’s work ! 
I seized my wretched wife by her beautiful hair and at- 
tempted to take her life. Already had I drawn from its 
scabbard a keen dagger, when Ralph, with a cry of horror, 
sprang upon me and bore me to the floor. Like two wild 
beasts we struggled, overturning the table upon which 
the lamp stood, breaking it and causing the oil to ignite. 
Soon the carpet was in one light blaze. I saw it creeping 
upon us. Still I fought for the mastery! At last my 
fingers clutched his throat. With all the strength of 
which I was possessed I compressed them. I saw him 
growing purple in the face, felt his struggles grow less, 
until, with a gasp, he ceased to writhe and fell back help- 
less. I was free! I turned to look for her. She was ly- 
ing, insensible, perhaps lifeless, but a few steps from me, 


COOTESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


179 


the fire eagerly creeping toward her. Breathless I stood 
and gazed upon them both. Those who had wronged me 
— helpless before me! 

“Vengeance is mine!’’ I shouted. Then a fiend seemed 
to take possession of me. I abused their helpless forms, 
heaping curses upon them, hurling the most opprobrious 
epithets at them. Suddenly a severe pang, a piercing pain 
choked me. My throat felt as if it was burning. I stag- 
gered back to the wall, clutching at my collar, to relieve 
me of the horrible sensation. I attempted to cry out. 

My God! my tongue refused to articulate! 

Again and again I esayed to speak. Only a succession 
of guttural sounds emanated from my parched and burn- 
ing throat. Filled with horror, gasping and clutching 
at my throat, I staggered toward the door, the flames lick- 
ing up the carpet behind me. A faint wail from the cradle 
struck upon my ears. 

My child ! I could not leave her to perish. With frantic 
haste I returned to the cradle. Already the blankets 
which covered her were igniting. I tore the little one 
from her resting place, stamped out the fire that would 
soon have ended her life, and, wrapping her securely in 
one of the blankets, rushed from the room, leaving them 
behind me to die, to be consumed in the eager, lurid 
flames sweeping down upon them with devilish haste! 

Out into the peaceful night I fled, on across the fields, 
never stopping to look behind me, fleeing as if pursued 
by all the demons of the infernal regions. 


180 COi^FESSlON OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 

\ 


CHAPTER XXIL 

THE PASSING WEEKS. 

For many hours I struggled along, the faint gleam of 
the new moon lighting but imperfectly my path. Stum- 
bling and falling, through mud and mire, swamp, wood- 
land and meadow, I pursued my way, never once relaxing 
my frantic hold upon the child, who, sleeping through it 
all (for she had subsided into slumber almost as soon as 
I had lifted her from the cradle), gave me no trouble. 

Once I looked back over my shoulder. The heavens 
were lit up with the reflection of the burning house — the 
house of shame, the funeral pyre of those two, who must 
now be ashes, their beauty obliterated by the devouring 
flames. 

I felt no pang of remorse or sorrow. I felt that it was 
but right ! My only, feeling was that of desire to leave the 
dread spot far behind me, So, wet and muddy, my cloth- 
ing torn from contact with briers and brush, my flesh cut 
and bruised, feeling the fever in my head and throat grow- 
ing in fierce intensity, I stumbled along, until — gladsome 
sight — I beheld a faint light in the distance. Almost at 
the same moment my foot came in contact with some im- 
movable object and, glancing down, I saw that I had 
come upon the road bed of a railway. My foot had struck 
the track! Thinking to make more rapid progress, the 
walking being better upon the railway than in the fields, 
I turned to my right and proceeded in the direction of the 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


181 


light, pressing the child closer to my breast, rapidly con- 
tinuing my flight. On, until the light grew brighter, and 
I saw that I was approaching a station. The light was 
a switch signal, and was but a short distance from the 
depot. 

In a few moments I had reached the house. It was de- 
serted, and the doors of the waiting rooms were locked, 
but a baggage truck stood outside, and upon this I laid the 
child, and seated myself to rest. I could not have pro- 
ceeded much farther. I must have walked at least ten 
miles, and was nearly exhausted. A glance at my watch 
in the moonlight informed me that the hour lacked but a 
few minutes of three o’clock. In two hours it would be 
light. I determined to rest an hour, and then continue 
on my way. Perhaps a train might pass during that time 
and I could board it, and soon be far away. But I was 
doomed to suffer disappointment. No train passed the 
lonely station, and so, as the clocks in the neighboring 
village tolled out the hour of four, I again gathered the 
sleeping infant to my breast, and started wearily along 
the hard road bed of the railway, on, I knew not where. 
As I passed the station I glanced up at the sign-board, 
which bore the name of the town for which this was the 
depot. It was Homer! The name of the Greek philos- 
opher caused my thoughts to wander back to my college 
days. How happy I had been when Homer had been my 
only anxiety! How I wished that those days could return 
once more, and I, a happy boy at college, my heart burst- 
ing with ambition, my mind fixed upon making for my- 
self a name among men. 

But it had all passed. Those days were gone, and I, a 
wanderer upon the face of the earth, a murderer, even if 
I had been driven to it by treachery and deceit. 


182 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


‘‘Oh God! Thou art my creator. Be lenient with Thy 
servant,” I mentally cried, my voice refusing to do my 
bidding. 

I was recalled to myself by the weak voice of my child. 
She had awakened and was crying faintly. Poor little 
thing! Hunger perhaps had caused the puny wail. I 
must in some way provide food for her. Would it not 
have been best to have left her to die? What could the 
future bring to her but sorrow and shame ! 

The gray dawn came at last. The surrounding ob- 
jects grew less vague, more distinct. Upon either side of 
the track I could see at intervals the houses of men, the 
peaceful, happy homes of honest men, tillers of the soil, 
f must apply to some one of them for food, my child must 
be fed and my own hunger satisfied. 

Turning from the railway at last, I scrambled with some 
difficulty to the top of an embankment, and struck across 
the fields, wet with dew, in the direction of a farm house 
not far off. 

A young girl, engaged in milking, turned and looked at 
me with a startled expression in her eyes as I approached 
the barn. I smiled wearily and attempted to explain to 
her my wishes. With horror I found my voice still hushed. 
I could not speak! 

Would this last forever? was the thought that flashed 
through my mind — was this my punishment? 

The girl had risen from the stool upon which she had 
been seated and was staring at me in wondering amaze- 
ment. A look of alarm gradually took its place, and she 
started as if to leave me. Taking a memorandum book 
and pencil from my pocket, I wrote upon one of the 
leaves that both myself and the child were suffering from 
fatigue and hunger and beseeched her to obtain food for 


CONFESSION OF LOKEAINE HEKSCHEL. 


183 


US if possible. She took the book and read what I had 
written and then, looking up in my face with an expression 
of compassion, motioned for me to follow her and led the 
way toward the house but a stone’s throw from the barn. 
A bearded man, roughly clad, but with an honest face, 
met us at the door. To him the girl spoke: 

“Oh, father,” she murmured, pity in her young voice, 
“here is a poor deaf and dumb man and he has a little 
baby. He said he was hungry. Can’t we give him some 
breakfast and feed the baby?” 

“How on earth could he say he was hungry if he is 
deaf and dumb?” cried the father, 

I smiled in spite of my fatigued and exhausted condi- 
tion and indicated that I could hear, but could not speak, 
and, tapping upon my little book, conveyed to him the 
manner I had adopted to inform my little friend of my 
hunger. 

“Too bad,” he commented when I had finished. “Where 
did you come from?” I indicated by a sweep of my hand, 
some far off place. 

“Hum. And this baby — yours?” 

I bowed. 

“Wife dead?” slightly suspiciously. 

I averted my eyes and bowed again. The little one was 
now crying lustily, and was wide awake. I wrote upon 
the book that if he would give us food that I would pay him 
and then explain more fully why I was there and where 
I was going. 

“Of course!” he exclaimed, after reading. “You shall 
have some breakfast. I don’t know as it’s necessary to 
explain anything. ’Tain’t none of my business. Looks 
kinder funny to see a man goin’ ’round the country with 
a little baby, but you don’t look like a kidnapper, and if 


184 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE IIERSCHEL. 


you say it^s all right, why, Pll believe you. Come into 
the house and Pll introduce you to the ole woman.” 

I thanked him with my eyes and followed him into 
the house. His wife (a motherly soul !) made us welcome. 
One of her daughters was nursing a fine, healthy boy of 
about the same age as my little one, and she willingly took 
the crying infant and satisfied its hunger. Breakfast was 
over, but the wife prepared a meal for me, and after I was 
through insisted upon my resting. I accepted the prof- 
fered hospitality. I needed rest sorely, and so followed 
the farmer to a homely but comfortably furnished room 
just off the kitchen, where I had eaten. Pointing to a bed, 
covered with a counterpane of spotless purity, which filled 
one side of the apartment, my host remarked: 

“My darter’s bed. But she ain't got no objection to your 
occupyin’ it. So jump in an’ take a good snooze an’ ye’ll 
feel better. We’ll look after the baby.” 

Again I thanked him mutely and when he had gone 
began disrobing. What a relief it was to me to remove 
my clothing. How thankful I felt that I had fallen among 
such friends. 

Seated upon the edge of the bed, I stooped to untie my 
shoes. Immediately opposite me, hanging suspended 
over the plain wash stand, was a square, old-fashioned 
mirror. As I straightened up, after removing my shoes, 
I caught the reflection of my head and shoulders in the 
glass. Spell-bound I gazed. If my tongue could have 
done my bidding I should have cried aloud in horror; 
for my brow, unmarked by time, smooth and unwrinkled 
but a few short hours before, was now deeply seamed, 
Deep lines extending from the corners of my mouth gave 
me the appearance of a man of sixty, while my hair, once 
black, was now as whitei as the Alpine snows. What a 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCIIEL. 


18 S 


change that night had made! Stricken dumb! prema- 
turely aged ! an outcast upon the face of the earth ! 

I threw myself upon the bed and sobbed bitterly. I 
prayed God that I might die. Earnestly I besought my 
Master to remove from me the memory of it all. But He 
heeded not my prayer. I must linger on and suffer through 
the years to come. He permitted me to live. Nay, forced 
life upon me, perhaps for the sake of my little one. I had 
not thought of her in my wild desire to die. No, better 
that I should live on, even to suffer, for her sweet sake. 

I mechanically arose and finished disrobing, and then, 
sad at heart, burning with fever, crept between the clean 
sheets and slept! 

Dreamless slumber brought forgetfulness. 

I awoke with a racking pain in my head, my temples 
throbbed, my mouth and throat felt parched and burning. 
Upon attempting to move I found it next to impossible 
to do so. 

“Am I about to be ill?” I thought in terror, now desir- 
ing life as eagerly as I had prayed the night before to have 
it taken from me. “What will become of me, my child! 
I must shake off this feeling.” But each fresh effort but 
gave me greater distress, and, trembling from weakness, 
I fell back upon the bed helpless. The door opened at 
that moment and my kind host made his appearance. 
Seeing me awake, my eyes staring at him, he said: 

“I was just cornin’ to wake you. Night is coming on, 
and you know this is my daughter’s room. I don’t want 
to turn you out. I can give you another bed.” At that 
moment, approaching the bed, he must have observed 
something strange in my appearance, for he cried: “My 
Lord, man! You’re goin’ to be sick! Your eyes are wild 
and delirious. You are burning up with fever. Don’t try 


18G 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCIIEL. 


to move! You’ll stay in that bed until you’re well. Sallie 
can sleep with her mother. Stay right where' you are. I’ll 
go for the doctor,” and without waiting to say more he 
rushed precipitately out of the room. 

I lay and stared at the ceiling, feeling the fever gradu- 
ally possessing me. Strange faces and forms appeared 
upon the walls. Grinning creatures stared at me from be- 
hind the mirror, crouching at the foot of the bed. I realized 
that they were but the phantasies of a mind disordered, 
knew that they but came to warn me that soon raging 
delirium would take possession of my mind. I remember 
thinking “So be it,” and then sank into unconsciousness. 

The three weeks that followed were a blank. They told 
me upon my recovery that I had come very near death’s 
door, but careful nursing and skillful treatment at the 
hands of the local physician brought me through, and one 
bright day in July I was permitted to rise from my bed, and 
sit by the window to gaze upon the fields ripe with golden 
grain, to watch the cows grazing peacefully in the mead- 
ows beyond. I rapidly gained in strength. One week 
from the day the doctor informed me I might risk getting 
out of bed I felt as strong as ever. I felt that I must now 
be leaving my kind friends. I could not bring myself to 
longer impose upon their hospitality. But one thing wor- 
ried me. My child! For hours I would sit, looking out 
of the window, hearing the lowing of the cattle, the song 
of the harvesters, broken into by the roar of a passing 
train at intervals, and puzzle my mind as to the best plan to 
pursue concerning this one, my only one of the kind upon 
earth. Suddenly, one day, an inspired thought came to 
me. 

Why could I not leave her here with these honest, 
kindly people? With them she would grow up in peace 


CONFESSION OF LOKEAINE HEKSCllEL. 


187 


and happiness, surrounded by the beauties of God^s handi- 
work, knowing naught of the cruel, wicked world. I could 
send money for her support from time to time, and at 
intervals visit her. 

The more I thought of this the more favorable did 
it appear to me, and so one day I broached the subject to 
the farmer, John Adler by name. I informed him through 
the medium of paper and pencil that my wife was dead, 
that I had missed the train at Homer the night preceding 
the morning I had first made my appearance, and had 
started to walk to Hillsdale in order to catch the early 
morning train, and had taken the wrong road. I stated 
that I had no relations with whom to leave the child, and 
if he would take her into his family circle, consider her as' 
one of his own, that he should be amply rewarded. 

He hesitated some, held a lengthy consultation with 
his wife and finally agreed to do as I desired. 

“Bring her up as your own,” I wrote. “Her name is 
Rachel. Give her your own name of Adler. I have my 
reasons for asking this of you. Nothing dishonorable, 
but which I cannot explain now. I will pay you what you 
think best.” 

After some hesitation he agreed. It was arranged that 
I was to pay him the sum of five hundred dollars annu- 
ally until the child had reached the age of twelve years, 
when an additional sum of three hundred dollars yearly 
was to be paid. I agreed to his terms, thankful that a 
home had been provided for my little one. 

I had not made any inquiry concerning the fire at 
Union City. I naturally supposed that they had heard 
of it, but as none of the family mentioned the circum- 
stance I almost feared to broach the subject. 

But upon the morning of my departure, as we were 


188 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


seated at the table, I wrote upon my tablet these words : 

“As I was waiting for the train at Homer before I 
learned that I could not catch one until late the following 
day I observed a bright glare in the heavens. Has there 
been an extensive conflagration near here lately?” 

“Yes; a big fire at Union City,” replied Adler. 

“A factory or residence?” I wrote. 

“A house belonging to a Mr, Dane. It caught about 
ten o’clock at night and burned to the ground before any 
one could reach it.” 

“Was any one injured?” 

“Mr. Dane, his wife and little baby were burned up in 
the house. At least, so everybody says, as none of ’em 
have been seen since.” 

So they had been consumed ! 

“Another thing,” my host continued. “The man at the 
station said that a stranger, a middle-aged man, had come 
in on the afternoon train and had asked him some ques- 
tions about a man whose name sounded very much like 
Mr. Dane’s, and who he believed was the same. This 
stranger went to the hotel, eat his supper, and went out for 
a walk. He never came back. The station agent de- 
clares that the stranger went to Mr. Dane’s house that 
night, in some way was responsible for the fire and was 
burned up with the others. Anyhow, he was never seen 
again, and his valise is still at the hotel. They found out 
his name when they opened the valise. He didn’t reg- 
ister. It was a strange name — Lorraine Herschel. Did 
you ever hear it?” 

I shook my head and averted my eyes. I made no fur- 
ther comment, but finished my breakfast. 

So I was supposed to be dead ! In all probabilities the 
newspapers had published the fact, and it had been copied 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


189 


into the papers at home. Be it so. I had no reason to 
wish it otherwise. 

I arose from the table and an hour later pressed a fifty 
dollar bill into John Adler’s hand and made ready to 
leave that peaceful home. 

“Pll just credit you with this on account,” remarked 
Adler. “I suppose you want a receipt. What name, sir?” 

I had not up to that time given any name. He had 
not asked for it. I had not thought of it. 

I smiled, reading him, understanding why he asked the 
question. 

Taking my tablet, I wrote the first name that came to 
my mind — '‘Henry Allen,” the name I have borne ever 
since. 

Then, without waiting for the receipt, I stooped and 
kissed my child — a long farewell, and left the house, going 
out into the world, a new man, bearing a new name, to 
seek new life. 

Lorraine Herschel was dead! 

Henry Allen lived! 


190 


CONFESSION OF LOKKAINE HEKSCHEL. 


CHAPTER XXIIL 

A STARTLING DISCOVERY. 

I went directly to Chicago and registered at the Tre- 
mont house. I had not fully made up my mind to what 
business I would turn my attention. I could not preach. 
I felt that I would never speak again, and to my mind 
came the conviction that never again could I feel as I had 
felt in the days gone by. No holy thoughts possessed 
me now. I shuddered at times as I realized the terrible 
power of God’s anger. I dreaded that, but his tender love 
I doubted. Had he not permitted me to suffer? 

I could not teach ; but one field was left to me — I could 
write. Later on I might turn my attention to that; at 
present I felt no inclination to do anything but brood over 
my terrible experiences. 

The days passed monotonously. In the mornings I 
read the papers, burying myself in them until dinner; the 
afternoons were passed in walking the streets, gazing in 
at the store windows or sitting in my room, thinking 
— brooding. 

I retired early. Only in sleep could I forget, and some- 
times not even then, for dreams came to me occasionally, 
always of my happy past, before the clouds came, before 
the blow fell upon me. I would see her face in my slum- 
bers, always smiling, ever lovely, felt her kisses upon my 
brow and, waking — realizing that only a dream had come 
to mock me — cursed her in my heart. Why could I not 


CONFESSIOX. OF LORFvAINE IlERSCHEL. 


191 


forget her? Why did the memories of those days haunt 
me? 

I began to frequent the theaters at last. I had never 
been an amusement seeker in the olden times; I had be- 
lieved such things frivolous and detractive from my holy 
calling; but now they afforded me pleasure, a relief from 
thought. While witnessing the representations of mimic 
trouble upon the stage, I forgot for the time my own, and 
when the play had ended wished that it could have con- 
tinued forever, that I might be kept from myself ! And so 
the weeks passed by, until I had been in the city one 
month. Strange to say, I had never given my fortune a 
thought. I had been in possession of nearly $5,000 when 
I had left home, having a check in my pocket-book for 
that amount, and upon reaching Philadelphia had gone 
to the bank and had it cashed. So I was not destitute, had 
no need of ready cash. I did not realize until the month 
had passed, that, being supposed dead, my earthly pos- 
sessions were lost to me; that I could not lay claim to one 
cent of the money left me by Uncle Ralph, or in any way 
receive benefit from my property, unless I came forth from 
my hiding place and proclaimed to the world that I was 
still in the land of the living. 

When this thought flashed through my mind I was sit- 
ting by the table in my apartment reading. I had just 
come from the theater, where I had witnessed a play, 
where a man, supposed to be dead, returns and claims his 
wife (who has married again) and property. It had made 
a decided impression upon my mind, and I had been think- 
ing of it, even while reading, when the fact occurred to 
me that I was placed much in the same position as the 
hero of the play. I threw the paper from me and, rising, 
paced the floor. 


192 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


For nearly an hour I walked and pondered. There was 
but one way open before me, and that was to resurrect 
Lorraine Herschel, and consign Henry Allen to the silent 
tomb. Could I do this? I could not make up my mind. 
Into whose hands would my money and property fall? 
There were no heirs. My will, in the hands of my lawyers, 
left everything to my wife; but she was dead — my child 
lived. The thought came to me like a flash. She could 
inherit. But then again, how could I prove my little one’s 
right to this money, without disclosing my identity? The 
infant was also supposed to be dead, had been reported to 
have perished in the flames with her mother, had been 
consumed with us all. If I came forward as Henry Allen 
I should be compelled to explain how I came in posses- 
sion of the facts, and when brought face to face with those 
who. had known me, although greatly changed, I might 
be recognized. 

No; I realized that this idea was impracticable. I must 
either return to life or sacrifice my fortune. Sorely per- 
plexed, I took up the paper once more and glanced ab- 
sently at the printed columns. I had not read the papers 
that morning, as had been my usual custom; I had not 
been feeling well, so had taken a long walk along the 
lake front, reserving my reading until later in the day. 
Suddenly my eye caught the bold heading of an article 
upon the front page. It was a peculiar one, and attracted 
me. Sitting down, I read it: 

‘‘RETURNED FROM THE DEAD. 

“The Strange Case of One Supposed to Have Perished — 
A Miraculous Escape.” 

“Nearly two months ago we published the account of 
the burning of the residence of Mr. Royce Dane, a wealthy 
and esteemed citizen of Union City, Mich. At that time, 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


193 


and even up to the present, it was supposed that Mr. Dane, 
his wife and infant child perished in the flames. It was also 
reported that a stranger, who had arrived in town that 
very day, and who was seen no more, after eating supper 
at the hotel, where he left a traveling valise, containing 
some articles of clothing and papers bearing his name, 
had in some way been responsible for the fire and had 
also perished, as nothing has been heard or seen of him 
since. But certain events which have occurred during 
the past few days go to prove that at least part of this re- 
port is incorrect, and, although it proves beyond doubt 
the death of the stranger, yet exonerates him from all 
blame. 

“The following facts are copied from the Philadelphia 
Press : 

“ The man who visited Union City several weeks ago 
and perished in the flames of a burning building was the 

Reverend Lorraine Herschel, of , and the man known 

as Royce Dane was in reality his half brother, Ralph Dean, 
who for reasons best known to himself had substituted the 
former name for his correct one. 

“ The lady who was reported to have met her death in 
the flames was not the wife of Mr. Dean, as reported, but 
the spouse of the reverend gentleman, and was visiting 
her brother-in-law at the time. This much has come to 
light through the lawyer who has had charge of the de- 
ceased gentleman’s affairs, and is corroborated to a cer- 
tain extent by the local physician, who states that upon 
the Sabbath preceding the calamity he had attended Mr. 
Herschel professionally, and from him learned that his 
wife, Mrs. Herschel, was absent upon a visit. Upon call- 
ing the next day he had not found the reverend sir at 
home, and at once came to the conclusion that he had 
gone to join his wife. 


194 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE IIERSCHEL. 


“ ‘But the circumstance which goes to prove the sad 
deaths of Mr. Herschel and his infant daughter, is the brief 
statement of Mrs. Herschel herself, who narrowly escaped 
a horrible fate, beings rescued by Mr. Ralph Dean but a 
few moments before the walls of the burning building col- 
lapsed, burying her husband and child beneath the ruins. 
Mrs. Herschel returned home yesterday, bowed down be- 
neath the weight of her affliction, and at first refused to 
grant our correspondent an interview, but afterward 
seemed to alter her determination and thus describes her 
escape, also explaining why she has not informed the pub- 
lic of the facts before. 

“ ‘It must have been about eleven o’clock when the 
fire broke out,’ she began. ‘We were all sleeping. My 
husband arrived after dark and was much fatigued ; so re- 
tired early. Mr. Herschel and myself have made it a rule 
to occupy separate apartments since our marriage, and so 
was not with me. My baby was in her cradle in an adjoin- 
ing room. When I awoke from my slumbers the fire was 
creeping toward the bed and the room was full of smoke. 
I screamed and ran to the door; the hall was one mass 
of flames ! The sight terrified me. I forgot everything and 
in my terror would surely have perished, but at that mo- 
ment Mr. Dean sprang across the hallway — his apart- 
ment being on the opposite side — and, wrapping me in a 
blanket, rushed through the flames and bore me in safety 
out upon the lawn. Then I thought of my husband and 
child; but before Ralph could return into the house the 
roof fell in and the building was in ruins.’ Here she stopped 
to remove the tears from her eyes and compose herself. 

“The reported waited respectfully for a few moments and 
then asked: 

“ ‘Had not the conflagration attracted the attention of 
the people in the neighboring town?’ 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


195 


‘Not at that time. We did not wait to see. Ralph was 
so horrified at the sight, and we both felt so terribly over 
our loss that we left the spot just as soon as he could har- 
ness a horse, and drive away. We drove until daylight, 
arriving at a little town called Litchfield, where we have 
both been confined to our beds until a few days ago. 
Ralph — Mr. Dean — is now in Cleveland. He was terribly 
burned, and has gone there for treatment. You see, I will 
bear the mark of the fire to my grave, ^ pointing to a scarce- 
ly healed scar upon her cheek. 

“ It was a horrible affair,^ commented the reporter. 

“Mrs. Herschel shuddered and averted her eyes. 

“ ‘Every one supposed you dead,’ remarked the news- 
paper man. 

“ ‘Yes, soil have heard. We did not give our names to 
the people who cared for us during our illness. Mr. Dean 
was very low and I did not care to attract the reporters; 
so I remained quiet. You see, I am not dead. Mr. Dean 
is living. My poor husband and dear little child alone 
perished. Pray let us end this interview; the subject is a 
painful one to me.’ 

“Our correspondent thanked her and left the house. 
There are several points in Mrs. Herschel’s statement 
which seem strange and almost improbable, but we will 
not dwell upon them. 

“There cannot be a doubt but what the Reverend Her- 
schel really perished in the flames. Letters sent to him by 
his lawyer, banker and others to Chicago have not been 
called for, although ordered sent them by Mr. Herschel 
at the time of his leaving home, consequently expected by 
him. Nothing has been heard of him since that time, and 
the lawyer is so well convinced of the fact that he has com- 
menced the business of transferring the property of the 


196 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


deceased to his widow, the same being left her in the will 
of the deceased, now in the possession of the attorney. 
Mrs. Herschel gave no explanation as to the probable 
cause of the fire.’^ 

I allowed the paper to fall from my hands to the floor. 
Dumfounded, staring in amazement, unable to control 
my thoughts, I sat for fully thirty minutes. Not dead! 
Rescued from the flames and by him ! I alone the sufferer ! 
She, my widow, my fortune going to enrich her! At last, 
exercising a mighty effort, I rose to my feet and paced the 
floor. What was to be done? I could not think. Over 
and over again rang the words: “Not dead! Not dead! 
She lives!” 

“I will return and wrest this fortune from her,” the mad 
thought came to me. “I will show myself to her alive. Her 
infamy shall be spread broadcast over the civilized world. 
I will ruin her!” 

But my child! Ah, that innocent one must not suffer. 
Why bring shame to that sweet, helpless one? I sat 
down and reasoned. In what would I benefit myself by 
exposing her? Only furnish material for scandal mongers 
to work upon, supply the newspapers with sensational 
reading matter, excite pity for myself, have the world 
point its finger at my prematurely whitened hair and 
say: “There goes poor Lorraine Herschel. His wife 
wrecked hi^ life. Poor fellow; he is to be pitied.” 

I sprang to my feet. No, I would not expose her. The 
world should not talk. I was dead to them, to her, to him. 
I would remain so until some day in the future — some day 
might come when I could wreak a sure, a terrible venge- 
ance upon them both, and not be known except to them. 
I could not form a plan, but the day would come surely, 
and then I would not fail as I had before. I would take 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL.: 


197 


time and think, lay my plans well and execute them thor- 
oughly. They thought me dead, had no fear; but they 
should see! The money — dross! That should go. I 
could earn money, enough for myself and my child. Ah, 
another bright thought! She loved the child and grieved 
for it as one dead. So much the more reason why I should 
allow her to think us both dead. In some way the child 
should assist me in my revenge. It would make it more 
complete. 

Like a madman I paced the floor of my room, the gas 
burning at full head above me. I heard the clocks strike 
two, but heeded them not. Like the waves upon the sea 
shore, my thoughts surged upon me. All the old memor- 
ies of bitter wrong returned, now that I knew that my 
vengeance was as yet unaccomplished.' The burning 
thoughts coursed tumultuously, like living fire, through 
my being. Oh, if I could only have spoken ! If my tongue 
would but have obeyed me! Useless to crave. It was si- 
lenced, and while my heart was filled, my tongue remained 
as silent as the grave ! 

The atmosphere of the room grew stifling. I felt that 
I must have fresh air; so, seizing my hat and cane, I 
rushed hastily down the stairs, out upon the street. 

Without object or destination I walked, up one street 
— down another. At last I found myself near the river, 
a dark, deserted spot, desolate and gloomy. Almost at my 
feet the dirty waters of the river flowed silently by. I stood 
and gazed a moment, and then, shuddering involuntarily, 
turned to retrace my steps. Like a dream comes the mem- 
ory of a dark, crouching form, springing toward me, the 
sensation of being struck a heavy blow upon the head, and 
I knew no more. 


198 


CONFESSION OF LORFvAlNE HERSCHEL. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

THE DAWN OF A NEW LIFE. 

“A severe blow, which might have resulted seriously,” 
were the first words I heard upon returning to conscious- 
ness. Opening my eyes, I looked up into the faces of two 
gentlemen, who were bending over me. 

“Ah, you are conscious !” cried one of them. I tried to 
reply by bowing my head, but found it impossible to do 
so, as the slight exertion caused me extreme pain. My 
neck and head felt very sore, my neck being almost rigid. 

“Do not move!” cried the other, seeing my action. “You 
must lie perfectly still for a few days. You have received 
a terrible blow upon the skull, and we feared you would 
not recover. You can, however, use your tongue. It will 
not materially affect you to talk.” 

I smiled sadly and conveyed to them that I was dumb. 
They exchanged glances of surprise. 

“A mute, eh? Not deaf?” said one. I indicated that I 
could hear them, and then, stretching out my arm, saw 
with satisfaction that I could use it, and expressed a wish 
to write. They understood me, one of them furnishing me 
with a blank prescription tablet, and a pencil. “It won^t 
harm him to write,” he muttered. 

“Where am I?” I wrote, my surroundings being un- 
familiar to me. 

“At the hospital,” replied the gentleman who had first 
spoken. “We are physicians. Dr. Valentine, my com- 


CONFESSION OF LOKRAINE HEKSCHEL. 


199 


panion; Dr. Babcock, your humble servant. Now, who 
are you?” 

“Henry Allen, at your service.” 

“Where do you belong, Mr. Allen?” 

“I am stopping at the Tremont. How long have I been 
here?” 

“Since four o’clock this morning. It is now nearly ten. 
You were found lying insensible upon Washington street, 
near the river, by the patrolman upon the beat, and 
brought here at once. You had been waylaid by highway- 
men and robbed.” 

Fortunately I had but a small amount of money upon 
my person. I informed the physicans of the fact; the 
thieves had in all probabilities taken my gold watch. Mak- 
ing inquiry concerning this I found that such had been 
the case. My pockets were turned inside out, even my 
underclothing had been searched, proven from the fact of 
my clothing having been found in a disordered condition. 

“That is a pretty tough neighborhood at night,” com- 
mented Dr. Valentine. “It is no uncommon occurrence for 
strangers to be held up and relieved of theif valuables and 
sometimes bodies are found floating in the river. It is 
quite handy.” 

I shuddered. 

“You had better remain here until you have entirely re- 
covered from the effects of your injuries,” said Dr. Bab- 
cock. “I will take it upon myself to inform your friends 
of your accident and leave word at the hotel.” 

I wrote upon the tablet: “I have no friends in the 
city. You can inform the people at the hotel, if you 
please.” 

“I will do so,” he replied, and then, cautioning me to 
remain as quiet as I possibly could, they left me. Dr. Bab- 
cock saying that he would return later in the day. 


200 


CONFESSION OF LOFvRAINE HERSCHEL. 


I followed his instructions fully; indeed, the slightest 
movement of my head produced such agony that for my 
own comfort I was glad to do so. 

At four o’clock the doctor returned and sat by my side, 
chatting pleasantly until nearly six. I refrained from writ- 
ing much, he thinking it best for me to do so, asking me 
but few questions that I could not answer affirmatively 
or negatively with my eyes. I felt sorry when the time 
came for him to leave me. His pleasant conversation had 
cheered me wonderfully ; cheerful talk and pleasant smiles 
often work cures as effectually as medicines. 

I was confined to the hospital for a week, but aside from 
the pain I had suffered I did not feel any the worse for my 
accident; indeed, it was one of the best things that could 
have happened me, for through it I was led on to a meeting 
with the man who of all others I most dearly love — my 
blind companion ! 

But of that later on. 

Returning to my hotel, I was overwhelmed with the 
sympathies of clerks, landlord, bell boys, waiters, etc., 
usual upon occasions of this kind. I suppose it is natural 
for every one to condole with one when accident or mis- 
fortune has befallen them, whether it comes from the heart 
or not. I thanked them all for their expressions of sym- 
pathy and inquired regarding my mail. My tablet and 
pencil were now my inseparable companions. I could 
not have done without them. I had but one correspondent 
— honest John Adler. He wrote me once a week, telling 
me how my little one was coming on, and I eagerly looked 
for his letters. The clerk handed me one. It was from 
him, and informed me that my darling was prospering 
as well as any one could wish. In conclusion he said: 
“All of us love her just the same as if she was our own. 


CONFESSION OF LOUKAINE HERSCHEL. 


201 


If you ever want some one to adopt her for good don^t 
forget to write. Yours truly, JOHN ADLER.” 

I smiled, placed the letter in the pocket of my coat and 
thought no more of it. It returned to me not many days 
after. Upon leaving the hospital. Dr. Babcock had ex- 
tended me a cordial invitation to call upon him at his of- 
fice. “I shall be glad to see you at any time,” he had said. 
“You interest me greatly, Mr. Allen, and I would like to 
know more of you.” I promised him that I would call, 
and the day following did so. 

I found the physician deeply interested in a pamphlet 
which was spread out before him. Turning at my en- 
trance, he cried: “Come in, Mr. Allen. You have not for- 
gotten your promise, I see.” 

I wrote upon my tablet the words: “No, I have no 
friends. It is to me a gratification to find one whom I can 
look upon as one.” 

He smiled in a gratified manner, and then, growing 
serious, a.sked: 

“You have not always been dumb?” 

“No, only a short time. A severe nervous shock 
produced it,” I wrote. 

‘^You must feel your affliction keenly?” 

I assured him that such was the case. 

“It is to me a terrible thing to be obliged to depend upon 
paper and pencil to express myself,” I continued. 

A sudden thought seemed to have entered his mind. 

“Excuse me, Mr. Allen; but are you a wealthy man?” 

I replied in the negative. 

“Married?” 

I compressed my lips. 

“I have been.” 

“Oh ! Have you thought of entering into business here? 


202 CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 

Pardon me, what was your object in coming to Chicago?’^ 

I explained that I had at the time of my arrival no defin- 
ite object, but at present had thought of entering into 
some practicable business or turning my attention to liter- 
ature. His face lit up. Taking up the pamphlet, the read- 
ing of which I had interrupted, he called my attention to 
the printed matter upon the cover. I read and saw that it 
was the semi-annual report of the asylum for the deaf, 
dumb and blind, and observed that his name was among 
those of the directors. 

“Here is an opportunity for you,” he cried, tapping the 
little book with his finger, “and if I mistake not, you are 
just the man for the position — intelligent, patient, kindly 
and earnest. You see, I am a good judge of character. 
We need teachers, instructors for these afflicted ones.” 

I interrupted him, placing my hand upon his arm. 

“I do not quite understand you,” I wrote. “I fail to see 
how I could impart knowledge to those who can neither 
hear nor speak. Of course, I understand that there is a 
deaf-mute alphabet, but I am not at all familiar with it, 
and in order to instruct I must first be proficient.” 

He smiled cheerfully. 

“My dear sir,” he cried, “in one month you will be able 
to use your fingers in a way that will surprise you. In 
two months you will be thoroughly competent. In six 
months, why, you will not feel the want of your tongue at 
all. You won’t need it. If you will accept the position I 
will attend to all the rest.” 

I considered what better opportunity could possibly 
present itself. Would I not be happier with those I could 
converse with without the need of pencil and paper? 
Would I not be performing a useful service to others 
afflicted even worse than myself? The more I thought 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


203 


of it the better I liked the idea. I would accept my friend’s 
kind offer. I informed him of my decision. 

“Good !” he exclaimed. “You shall take your first lesson 
to-day. If I mistake not, you will prove a treasure to us. 
Have you time to drive out to the institution with me this 
afternoon? Valentine can attend to the hospital cases. 
I have no serious ones outside, none but what can wait.^’ 

I assured him that I was entirely at his service, and in 
ten minutes was seated by ihis side in his buggy, being 
driven rapidly toward my future home, the new life that 
was opening out before me. 

On the way the doctor explained to me that there 
were several branches of instruction, that is, rudimentary 
branches. The first, the teaching of the mute alphabet to 
deaf mutes; the second, the teaching of the blind by the 
means of raised letters, etc.; the third, teaching the blind 
the manner of conversing with the mute, viz., by pressing 
the fingers, each holding the right hand of the other. 

“It is an interesting sight to witness a number of mutes 
clasping the hands of their blind school-fellows, convey- 
ing and exchanging ideas, carrying on a conversation 
almost as easily as if they could see and talk,” remarked 
the doctor, “and you will be surprised to see the rapidity 
with which it is done. It is an astonishing thing how 
readily all living things can adapt themselves to circum- 
stances. It was a wise providence that endowed us with 
more than one sense; a wonderful thing how some, lacking 
two of the most essential, can adapt the others so that their 
loss is scarcely felt.” 

I bowed my head. A wise Providence, indeed. 

, “We teach every English study,” went on the doctor; 
“history, geography, grammar, reading, writing; in fact, 
everything necessary to a complete education. We even 
have some fine musicians.” 


204 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


I smiled at this. It did not seem possible to me that 
one totally deaf could ever be taught music. I discovered 
my mistake before many days. I heard a difficult solo, 
performed correctly upon the piano by a young lady who 
could not hear a note of the beautiful composition. 

Arriving at the asylum, my friend introduced me to the 
managers, instructors, etc., and then with pride conducted 
me over the entire premises. It was a model institution of 
its kind, and before I left the building I had decided to ac- 
cept the offer made me by Dr. Babcock. He seemed 
much pleased over my decision and chatted enthusiastic- 
ally upon his pet hobby, until we reached his office. The 
following day I returned to the asylum to remain, and 
took my first lesson in the course of instruction, which 
during the years to come I was to impart to others. 

As the doctor had prophesied, I made rapid progress. 
I feltinterested in the new field of usefulness opened up to 
me and applied myself diligently, with the result that at 
the expiration of six months I was pronounced capable of 
entering upon my duties as instructor. I had now some- 
thing to occupy my mind and take my thoughts from my- 
self; during the day I seldom thought of the events of 
my past life. Sometimes at night, when all was silent, 
and I lay staring at the walls or ceiling of my apartment, 
before sleep came to me, the old bitter memories w'ould re- 
turn, and the wound in my heart reopen and cause the de- 
sire for vengeance to possess me, but at these times I 
would struggle with the feeling and, driving it from me, 
again forget for the time the sorrow of my life. 

And so the years passed bv, until the great change 
came, the change that blessed me ! 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


205 


CHAPTER XXV. 

AN ABDUCTION AND WHAT IT LED TO. 

I had been at the asylum a few days over three years 
and had made up my mind that the future years of my life 
should be passed there, where silence reigned and peace 
abounded. I felt more content, better satisfied with my- 
self than I knew I could possibly feel in any other position. 
It was contentment I wanted, that and forgetfulness. If 
I could but have driven out that gnawing desire, which still 
ate at my heart, I could have been perfectly happy; but 
until in some way I could become revenged I felt that I 
never could be entirely content. Strange that this feeling 
still clung to my mind with such tenacity. In every other 
respect I felt like a new man, but in my moments of great- 
est peace would come thq voice to my heart, making itself 
heard in spite of me. 

'‘She lives! He lives! You alone have been the loser; 
they have gained everything.” 

I would strive to drive this feeling from me ; to check this 
devilish voice. Useless. At unexpected times, even in the 
midst of my duties, it would force itself upon me. 

"She lives! She has lied, and so now enjoys your 
wealth. She is honored, respected as the widow of a 
good man. No black stain sullies her reputation. You 
are dead. Be revenged! Crush her as she has crushed 
yoti I” 

At these times I could feel my blood fairly boiling. I 


206 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


would set my teeth and only by the exercise of a powerful 
will could I smother the demon, which strove to overpower 
me, and continue with my labors. The glorious summer 
of my third year had come. I was resting in my room one 
evening after my labors, enjoying the peace of quiet rest 
after work well done, drinking in the fresh evening air 
as the gentle zephyrs softly entered through the open win- 
dow, when a sudden rap upon my door startled me. Ris- 
ing, I threw it wide open, disclosing the familiar form of 
Dr. Babcock and a stranger. 

“Pardon me for breaking in upon your meditations, my 
friend,” exclaimed the doctor, “but to-day this gentleman 
called upon me — Professor Deveaux, of Buffalo, and as 
he expressed a desire to visit our institution, although the 
hour was late, I concluded to drive him over and turn him 
over to you. I felt confident that! in your pride you would 
do us ample justice.” 

I bowed. 

“Allow me to introduce you. Professor Roger Deveaux, 
this is Mr. Henry Allen, one of our principal instructors.” 

“I am well pleased to form the acquaintance of such 
an estimable gentleman,” came from the lips of the stran- 
ger, as, stepping forward in a half hesitating way, he ex- 
tended his hand. Then I saw that he was blind, a blind- 
ness from which there was no possible chance of recover- 
ing. A hideous cicatrice extended diagonally from his 
brow, down across both eyes. The mark of fire — both eyes 
had been burned out. 

I shuddered slightly; the effect produced upon me be- 
ing one of great compassion for the man, horror at the 
hideous scar. I grasped the hand extended and pressed 
it, unconsciously answering his greeting by the means 
of communication existing between the blind and mutes. 


CONFESSION OF LOPJIA^NE HERSCIIEL. 


207 


A smile of pleasure lightened up his countenance. 

“Ah, you are an adept in the language of the mutes,” 
he remarked, pleasantly. “We shall have no difficulty in 
understanding each other.” 

“Oh, yes; Mr. Allen is proficient in all the branches of 
instruction carried on in our institution,” put in the doc- 
tor. 

In the dusk of coming night I studied the countenance 
of the man, whose hand I tightly clasped, as if loath to re- 
lease it. A noble face, marked by the hand of time or 
care — the broad, high forehead, seamed and furrowed; 
the cheeks and lips, concealed beneath a heavy growth of 
beard, streaked with gray; the hair, worn long, was also 
turning gray — not the face of an old man, yet he niust 
have been forty, judging from the tell-tale evidences 
which time had brought. I gave no thought at that time 
that sorrow might have done for him what it had for me. 
I had no reason to think so. I never saw him unhappy, 
distressed by bitter memories. 

“lam more than delighted to meet you,” he said at last, 
his musical voice going to my heart. “For three years 
I have been connected with an institution of this kind 
at Buffalo. It was to witness the operations of other 
schools that I left my home several days ago. We have 
heard much of the success of your admirable system, and 
I have been anxious to visit this place for some time. I am 
sure you will give me all the information you can ?” 

I assured him that it would afford me much pleasure 
to be of service to him, and the doctor, pleading an impor- 
tant case, left us. We sat and conversed until bed time — 
he in his deep, musical voice, I with my fingers. 

Professor Deveaux occupied a bed in my room that 
night. The following day I conducted him over our in- 


208 


CONFESSIOK OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


stitution, explaining each important factor to our great 
success in such a manner that, blind as he was, he claimed 
to have been the recipient of much of interest and benefit 
to his future operations. 

About one o’clock the doctor called for him, and it was 
with much regret that I saw him take his departure. I 
had grown very much attached to him during his short 
stay and secretly wished that he could have remained with 
me, a friend, I felt, that I could have reposed the utmost 
confidence in. One week from that time Dr. Babcock paid 
me another visit. After a few moments’ desultory conver- 
sation be asked: 

'‘How did you like Professor Deveaux?” 

"Very much,” I replied with my fingers. 

He laughed. 

"He seems to entertain the same feeling toward you,” 
he said. 

I asked him to explain, which he did by taking a letter 
from his pocket, which he had that morning received, 
dictated by the subject of our conversation, in which he 
asked if there was a possibility of obtaining a position in 
the institution. 

An; eager feeling of desire came to me. 

"Have you replied to his inquiry?” I asked. 

"Not yet. I thought I would consult with the board of 
managers before doing so. I believe Mr. Deveaux would 
be a valuable acquisition to our staf¥, but, of course, could 
not offer him a position unless they agreed with me.” 

"What has been the result of your consultation?” 

"They have left it all with me.” 

"And you?” 

"I shall write the professor, accepting his proposition.” 

I grasped his hand joyfully. I felt that I was about to 
gain a dear friend. The doctor left me. 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


209 


In a few days Roger Deveaux arrived, came to stay. 

At our mutual request he was consigned to my apart- 
ment, and then began that undying friendship, I might say 
love, which has brightened my existence, wrought happi- 
ness to my distressed mind. 

In the month that followed I confided to him in part the 
story of my life, withholding the incidents, as I felt that 
they would not interest him or benefit me. I told him that 
my wife had deceived me, that through her my affliction 
had come, informed him that she thought me dead, also 
her child, but that the little one lived and was being well 
cared for. At times, during the relation, a shadow crossed 
his countenance, the shadow of sympathy, I took it to be; 
in no other way could my story have affected him. I also 
told him of the desire for vengeance which at times pos- 
sessed me. In his gentle tones he strove to show me how 
wrong it was to harbor such feelings. “If she has so 
wronged you, depend upon it, she has suffered even as 
yourself. The feeling of remorse, eating at her heart, 
wfhen she thinks that through her both husband and child 
have died, must in itself be a terrible, never ending punish- 
ment.’^ 

I had not thought of that. True! She must suffer. 
The Almighty would surely exact from her full payment 
for everything. Why not leave her to Him — into His 
hands consign her? 

I battled with this feeling for many weeks. 

“Some day I will tell you the story of my life,” he one 
day said to me, as we sat, hand in hand, by the open win- 
dow. “I cannot bring myself to do so now. The wounds 
are too fresh. My history is even darker than your own. 
You shall know it all some day, and in that day I may 
lose your love and friendship ” 


210 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


I hastened to assure him that nothing could shake my 
faith in him. He smiled sadly. 

“I hope not,” he said, and the subject was dismissed. 

I still received my weekly letters from John Adler. A 
few days after my last conversation with my friend upon 
the subject mentioned above, the accustomed communi- 
cation reached me. 

The letter was as follows : 

‘‘Mr. Allen — Respected Sir: A strange thing happened 
here yesterday. You know some of my neighbors take 
summer boarders every year, and for a month past a widow 
lady and her servant have been stopping at the farm house 
of my nearest neighbor. Yesterday the lady stopped at 
my house and asked for a glass of milk. She said she had 
been out walking and was tired, and asked me as a favor 
to let her rest under the apple trees and refresh herself 
with the cooling drink. Of course, I couldn’t say no. While 
shq was lying, with her eyes half closed, looking up at 
the sky, your little girl, who walks like a good one and 
talks very plain, toddled over to the lady and said, in her 
baby talk : 

“ ‘You is a pretty lady.’ 

“I was standing near enough to hear her words and 
see that the lady looked up and turned as white as death 
when she saw the child. 

“ ‘What is your name, baby?’ I heard her ask. 

“Before the child could answer her I stepped forward 
and said: 

“ ‘The baby annoys you,’ making a moveruent to take 
her away. The lady clung to her and said: ‘No, she does 
not annoy me. I love children. I had a little one, who 
would have been just about her age if she had lived.’ 

“I said it was too bad, and tried to take the child away 
again. 


CONFESSION OF LORKAINE HERSCHEL. 


211 


‘‘ ‘What is her name?’ she asked me, taking no notice of 
my movement. 

“ ‘Rachel. She isjmy little one — Rachel Adler.’ 

“When I said Rachel I thought the lady would faint. 
She turned deathly white again, and then began to cry: 

“ ‘Rachel!’ she moaned. ‘The name of my child!’ 

“While she was crying I managed to get the baby away 
from her. She wiped her eyes at last and said : 

“ ‘You must pardon me, sir, for thus giving way to my 
grief. I have never forgotten my child, and your little 
one reminds me so of my own — has the same tender, lov- 
ing eyes, the same name. A mother’s heart does not for- 
get.’ 

“I said something, feeling rather confused like, and soon 
the lady left me. 

“Now, sir, I thought I had better write you all about 
this. I don’t know who this woman is. I have not had 
time to try and find out her name. I know she can’t be 
your wife, because you told me your wife was dead, but 
(you won’t feel bad, I hope) you remember you told me 
when you left the baby with me that you could not give 
your reasons for wanting me to give her my name, and 
putting this and that together I don’t think your right 
name is Allen, and the whole thing looks suspicious. We 
all love the little thing — just the same as if she was our 
own, and would adopt her by law if you would be willing. 
If you are her father and adopt her to us we can hold her, 
no matter what anybody says, and I think this would be 
the best thing to do. This woman can easily find out from 
the neighbors that I ain’t got any young children, and 
every blessed one of ’em knows the story about the little 
one, because one of my men that I discharged six months 
after you left has gone to the trouble of telling every- 
body about it. 


212 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


'‘I don’t say this woman has any claim on the child. I 
don’t know whether she will give me any trouble or not. 
I don’t know anything about it, but I thought I had better 
write to you and you could make up your mind what 
you wanted to do. 

“Hoping to ihear from you soon, I am yours, respect- 
fully, JOHN ADLER.” 

I had barely finished reading when my companion en- 
tered the room, groping his way toward the window. 

“Henry,” he called in his deep, musical voice. 

I gave evidence that I was before him. 

He came to me and, finding a chair, sank upon it, as 
if fatigued. 

“I am weary to-night,” he said. “I 'have exerted myself 
more than usual to-day.” 

Without making comment I told him that trouble 
threatened me. His face grew concerned at once. 

“Trouble, my friend?” he cried. “Can I be of assistance 
to you?” 

I briefly related the substance of the letter. He sat si- 
lent for some time, apparently thinking. Suddenly he 
asked: 

“What are your future intentions concerning your child, 
Henry?” 

Answering, I told him that I had not come to any posi- 
tive conclusion. 

“Why not do as this man desires, then? Would she 
not be happier with the mystery and uncertainty of her 
former life kept from her — believing herself really the 
child of this farmer — than to be with you, deprived of a 
mother’s tender care, without even her father’s voice to 
console her? Think of it, my friend. To my mind it would 
be the best thing to do.” 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


213 


I replied then that I had in the past thought to wreak my 
vengeance through the child, in some way to bring her 
mother anguish in retaliation for what she had caused me. 

A shade of horror crept over the bearded face of my 
friend. 

“What!” he cried in tones of reproach. “Make of the 
child an instrument to torture the mother? Shame, my 
friend! It is not like you to allow such thoughts to find 
eyen one moment’s resting place in your mind. The 
mother i^ already suffering. You tell me that this strange 
visitor to the home where the little one now is gave way 
to her grief. Do you not believe that she is your wife, the 
mother of your child? If so, do not her tears prove to 
your mind that she is suffering? Drive that thought from 
you ! Give your child to this man, or, exercising heavenly 
forgiveness, restore her to the mother.” 

I shrank from him. I told him I could not do that, that 
I must be as one dead to her forever. 

He shrugged his broad shoulders. 

“So be it, then,” he murmured. “It was merely a sug- 
gestion. I can understand wihy you cannot bring yourself 
to follow it, but do the other thing, Henry. Give your 
little one to the family who will make her happier than you 
could. You are content to abide with my love. We are 
almost as dear brothers. We cannot be separated, I feel. 
Forget your past; let it be buried as I have buried mine, 
and this little one, who almost daily reminds you of 
what has been, remove her from your life, and let us begin 
a new existence together.” 

His words decided me. It should be as he said. I sat 
down and began a letter to John Adler. I had scarcely 
written the introductory lines when the door opened and 
one of the attendants entered, bearing a telegram. It was 
for me. 


214 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


I tore open the envelope and read these lines : 

“Come immediately; a sad misfortune has come to us! 

“ADLER/' 

My heart stood still for the instant. A sad misfortune! 
What could it mean? Had anything happened my child? 
Why could he not have been more explicit? 

I turned to Roger (the attendant had left the apartment) 
and told him what I had received. His face grew anxious 
at once. 

“Go,” he said earnestly. “Do not delay a moment.” 

I followed his advice and in two hours was on my way 
to John Adler's house. 

He met me at the station, his face looking careworn and 
haggard. 

“I thought you would come on the first train and so 
come down to meet you,” were his first words. 

“My child !” I wrote upon my tablet. “She is not dead?” 

“No, not that,” hei replied slowly. “She is gone. Some 
one has stolen her.” 

Her mother's work ! It all came to me like a flash. 

“Come to. the house. I can tell you the whole story 
better there,” he continued. “Everybody is staring at us 
here. The whole bu_siness is in everybody's mouth, and 
they surmise who you are. So come to the house and you 
shall know all. I was not to blame, sir.” 

Mechanically I followed him, my mind busy. How 
could I recover her I determined that she should not 
have her at any cost. 

Mrs. Adler seemed bowed down with grief. Upon see- 
ing me she burst into tears. 

“We could not help it, sir,” she sobbed. “We had no 
suspicion of her intentions.” 

I assured the good old soul that I did not blame either 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


216 


herself nor her worthy husband, and then, closeting my- 
self with the man, heard the story he had to tell me. 

“As I wrote you in my last letter,” he began, “everybody 
in the neighborhood knew the child was not ours, and 
was well informed about the way we came to get her. 
The woman, when she left me, must have commenced in- 
quiring about the baby, for the next day (yesterday) she 
came back and without knockin’ came into the kitchen, 
where we was eatin’ dinner. 

“ ‘Mr. Adler, you lied to me yesterday,’ she said, trem- 
blin’ all over, her black eyes flashin’.” 

“I asked her to explain what she meant by sayin’ that. 

“ T mean this,’ she said. ‘Nearly four years ago a man 
brought that child here and, after being sick a long time, 
left her with you. That man was my husband ! I thought 
both he and the child dead, have mourned for them all 
these years, but when I looked into that baby’s eyes yes- 
terday I felt that in some way I had been mistaken, that 
the child was mine, and that my husband lived. Upon 
my return home I made inquiry concerning the little 
one, and from the man who formerly worked for you, 
now in the employ of the farmer whose house is now my 
home, I learned the truth. He told me all, and I now 
come to demand my child.’ 

“We, the ole woman and myself, were thunderstruck. 
Could this be possible 

“ ‘All that you have said about the child bein’ left us 
is as straight as a string,’ I said. ‘But how do you know 
this man was your husband?’ 

“She took a piece of paper from her pocket, a scrap of 
dirty paper, and showed it to us. I looked at it, and saw 
it was one of the papers you had written on, while you 
was with us. 


216 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


“ The man who gave me my information 'also gave me 
this/ she said. ‘He picked it up from the floor one day, to 
light his pipe, but seeing that it bore the name of the man 
who had left the child, he kept it, thinking perhaps it might 
come in useful at sortie time. You see the name written 
there? It is Henry Allen. I could swear to this hand- 
writing at any time or place. The formation of the H in 
the first name is peculiarly that of my husband’s hand. 
The man you know as( Henry Allen is my husband. This 
child is mine.’ 

“I didn’t know what to say. She didn’t wait long for 
me to say anything, but went right on. 

“ ‘Another thing. My baby had two large moles on 
either side of the spine. You have doubtless observed the 
same upon this child.’ 

“I had noticed the marks. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t 
very well. I felt that she was speaking the truth; so 
couldn’t find the words to answer her. 

“ ‘You are silent,’ she said at last. ‘You admit that all 
this is true? I demand my child.’ 

“I answered her then. 

“ ‘I can’t do it,’ I said. ‘Mr. Allen left this child with 
me, and I can’t give her up without his say so.’ 

“My Lord, how mad she got. 

“ ‘You shall see,’ she snapped. ‘You cannot keep her 
from me,’ and then she flounced out of the room. When 
we got up this momin’ the baby was gone. In some way 
she had got into the house and stolen her. I wouldn’t be 
a bit surprised if that low down dog that told her all about 
it helped her. He knew as much about the house as I did. 
I believe it, because he ain’t been seen all day. I’ve had 
the country searched, but ain’t heard hide nor hair of any 
of ’em,” 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


217 


“Did you inquire at the depot?” I wrote. 

“Of course; she didn’t go that way” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Positive.” 

“Could she have engaged a team at the livery stable?” 

“I have asked ’em all, and they say not.” 

“How had she made her escape?” I pondered, all the 
old feeling of rage returning. I would find her. A smart 
detective should be put upon the case. 

The world should be searched. She should not have 
my child. 

I was obliged to remain over night with Adler, there 
being no train until morning. Little sleep came to me, the 
greater portion of the long night being passed in walking 
the floor. Morning found me more resolved, and after 
eating a slight breakfast forced upon me by my kind 
friends, I hurried to the station, caught the first train 
going west, and before noon was in Chicago. 


218 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

WHAT FOLLOWED. 

I made my way directly to the office of a celebrated de- 
tective and laid the facts of the case before him. He gave 
me great encouragement. 

“A very simple case,” he observed. ‘T shall find the 
child inside of a week.” I felt easier in my mind, he 
seemed so positive of success, and paying him a sum in ad- 
vance, receiving the assurance that he would commence 
operations at once, I returned to the asylum and my 
friend. He gave evidence of the pleasure my return 
brought him. 

‘T missed you sorely, even the short time you were ab- 
sent,” he cried. Then, when I had seated myself, asked 
for the full particulars. 

I told him all, not mentioning, however, that I had 
placed the case in the hands of a detective. 

“So the mother has the child,” he observed thought- 
fully, when I had finished. 

“Yes.” 

“What are you going to do?” 

“Wrest my child from her.” 

He sat silent for a time. 

“How are you going to do this?”' he asked finally. 

I told him that I had employed a detective. His face 
grew pale and sad. 

“You are going to hound her? Henry, my friend, you 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


219 


are adopting a wrong course. This’ poor woman, no mat- 
ter what she has done in the past, loves her little one to 
desperation. She is her mother. Think you, would not 
your mother have done the same? Would not any mother, 
even you, if placed in her position, act as she has done? 
For years, as you have told me, she has lived, thinking 
her little one and her husband dead. She finds her child 
by accident. No, not that. Providence guided her steps. 
All the strength of her womanly heart goes out to her off- 
spring. She cannot obtain possession of the little one in 
any other way, and so she abducts her. I cannot blame 
her. You should not. I will admit she has wounded you 
sorely, but think, my friend. Have not the years of sor- 
row and remorse been sufficient punishment? To err is 
human, to forgive divine. Exercise that divine forgive- 
ness; go to her, find her, not to tear from her breast the 
child, but to take her to your heart and say: ‘My wife, I 
forgive you. Let us forget the past; let us begin a new 
life.’ ” 

“You do not know all,” I rapidly communicated to 
him. “If you could see my prematurely aged face, my 
whitened hair, you would not say this. If Providence 
guided her to the place where my darling lived in peace, 
why did not that same supreme power direct her aright 
in the bitter days of the past?” 

“She is a woman. Since thei days of Eden her sex have 
been weak. Perhaps she was not to blame. You have 
never told me all your story; so I cannot judge. But my 
sympathies, my friend, are for her, even if she has wronged 
you.” 

“You pity her?” 

“Yes; but Llove you, my friend.” 

The words brought the tears to my eyes. His was a 
noble heart. 


220 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL.] 


“I cannot bring myself to think as you suggest,” I com- 
municated. “The memories are too bitter. My child I 
must have.” 

“Think again, Henry. A woman brought to bay is 
more desperate than a wild beast. The wounded lioness 
will give up her life to shield her young. There are 
instances on record where a desperate woman has de- 
stroyed both herself and children rather than be separated 
from them. This child now is all she has to live for. Might 
not she in her desperation prefer death to separation? 
Think you, would she, from your knowledge of her char- 
acter, hesitate at taking the life of the little one if brought 
face to face with the possibility of losing her forever?” 

I shuddered. The thought was a terrible one to me. I 
believed her capable of it; yet I could not bring myself to 
give up my plan. 

I told him so. 

“Then you are resolved?” he murmured. 

“Yes, fully.” 

“Then, Henry, I leave the matter in your hands. If in 
the future sorrow or crime comes from this, remember, 
I have tried to advise you.” 

I made no reply. We had never had a point of difler- 
ence between us before. It grieved me, aye, nettled me 
that he should thus (to my mind) turn against me. 

A week passed. I had heard nothing from the detective, 
when one day, shortly past noon, he came to me with the 
information that he had made but little progress. 

“I found out how she got off,” he announced. “The 
man that helped her used a team belonging to his em- 
ployer and drove her to Hillsdale, where she took the 
train east. I have been toi New York and Philadelphia, 
interviewed the conductor and brakemen of the train 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


221 


upon which she took passage, but without learning much. 
So many women travel with children that any one partic- 
ular female would scarcely attract unusual attention. I 
have not given up the case, however. I will search the 
world over if you are willing to stand the expense, and 
V\\ find her.’^ 

A sudden resolve took possession of my mind. I would 
follow her myself. Since the abduction I had not been in 
proper condition to conscientiously perform my duties. I 
would resign my position and begin the search myself. I 
informed the detective that I would have no further use for 
his services, paid him for his ineffectual efforts, and saw 
him leave the room with a feeling of satisfaction. He had 
not been successful. I would be more so. 

I informed Roger of my determination that night. 

He received the communication with a perceptible sad- 
dening of his noble countenance and said quietly : 

“I presume that it would be words thrown away to at- 
tempt to move you.” 

I responded affirmatively. 

He sighed. 

“Very well. When do you propose to start?” 

“Inside of a week.” 

“I shall then make immediate preparations to accom- 
pany you.” 

I had not expected this. 

“You will go with me?” I asked. 

A tender expression of love came to his lips. 

“Whither thou goest I will go,” he replied. “My tongue 
shall be your tongue; your eyes my eyes; our hearts for 
each other. You did not think I would let you go alone?” 

I felt moved at the affection displayed by his words. 
We would not be separated; the days that came would 


222 


CONFESSION OF LOKKAINE HERSCHEL. 


not be passed by me in silent communion with my 
thoughts, not always pleasant ones. 

“Be it so,” I responded, and nothing further was said 
upon the subject by either of us. 

Dr. Babcock and the board of managers received our 
resignations regretfully; but, seeing that we were deter- 
mined (I claimed that an ocean voyage was necessary 
for my health), they released us from our obligations, and 
eight days later we stood upon the hurricane deck of an 
ocean steamer, en route to Liverpool. 

My heart told me that she had gone to Europe. I had no 
grounds for the suspicion, but something seemed to tell 
me that there I should find my child, and, acting upon the 
impulse, I secured cabin passage for myself and friend, 
and in due time arrived upon the shores of Britain. 

It is needless to describe the events of the years that 
followed. Unencumbed by baggage (we carried two val- 
ises only), we made the tour of the British isles, and then 
the continent. The scenes we passed through, the events 
of travel would fill a large volume, but as others have gone 
over this ground before me, why repeat it? I was in search 
of my child, not traveling for pleasure, and as day followed 
day, until months, then years, had passed, with no tidings 
of the one I sought, the strange people and countries we 
traversed brought but little of interest to me. We had 
been absent from our home and country for nearly three 
years, when one day, sitting in our apartments in the West- 
minster Palace Hotel in London, I took my companion’s 
hand and said: 

“She is not here, Roger. We should have found her 
long before this, if such had been the case. We will return 
to America. Perhaps you were right when you told me 
that Providence had aided her; that same power seems to 
protect her even now.” 


CONFESSION OF LORKAINE HERSCHEL. 


223 


“You are satisfied to give up your search at last?” he 
asked quietly. 

“It seems to be a useless one,” I replied. 

“Then we will return.” 

My mind fully resolved, I allowed no time to pass idly 
by. That same day I secured passage on a steamer which 
was to sail two days later, and made preparations for de- 
parture. Roger seemed happier than he had been in some 
time; he never had abandoned his original ideas, and had 
at times tried to advise me against myself — all to no pur- 
pose. Now that the years had passed, without fruitful 
result, I determined of my own free will to give up the 
search, not with a contented mind, but because I had 
come to the conclusion that it was useless, a waste of time. 

We agreed to visit the theater that night. One of Gilbert 
and Sullivan’s latest productions was to be given its ini- 
tial performance at the Gaiety, and as we both enjoyed 
music and needed recreation, we mutually agreed that it 
would do us good to attend. So, dinner being over, we 
sallied forth, and, securing good seats, waited for the over- 
ture to begin and the curtain to rise. 

But we never witnessed the performance that night. An 
event which drove all thoughts of music or pleasure from 
my mind and subsequently from his thoughts transpired ! 
We had not been seated ten minutes, when, in glancing 
absently about the auditorium, my eyes lingering mechan- 
ically upon the seal of faces in box, pit and stalls, I caught 
sight of one which riveted me to my chair — a face I had 
not seen in long years, one I had once loved and had been 
in eager search of for years. 

The face of my wife! 

At first I thought I must be mistaken ; but no. Carefully 
elevating my lorgnette, I brought it to bear upon the 


224 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


countenance which had attracted me. It was she, and how 
little changed! A look of melancholy rested in the dark, 
soulful eyes, a few lines here and there marked the beauti- 
ful face; a livid scar marred the contour of her cheek; 
but she was still beautiful, even more lovely to my mind 
than in the days when she had been my loved one — my 
idol! Assuring myself that I was correct in my suspicion, 
I conveyed the information to my companion. 

He turned pale and whispered: 

“Are you sure?’^ 

“I cannot be mistaken. I could not forget that face.” 

“Then we had better leave our present positions. If she 
is so near that you can recognize her she may in turn 
know you. I suppose you contemplate following her?” 

“Surely. After all these years think you I would allow 
her to give me the slip?” 

“No, I suppose not,” was his quiet reply. 

Rising, we left our seats just as the orchestra burst forth 
in a grand concentration of harmony. I rapidly formed 
my plans; we would remain standing in the lobby until 
the performance was over, and then, exercising extreme 
caution not to be seen by her, follow her to her place of 
residence when she left the building. We were not obliged 
to remain waiting long. At the termination of the first 
act, as we stood partly concealed behind the portieres 
that separated the lobby from the auditorium, a female 
figure passed us, walking with a firm tread, as if in some 
haste. 

“Come,” I pressed upon Roger’s hand, and we followed. 

She took a hansom. We did the same. 

“Do not lose sight of that carriage,” Roger instructed 
the driver, I first expressing the words. 

“Hall right, sir,” replied the cockney, and away we 
flew. 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


225 


It seemed to me our ride would never end. 

Through bright streets and dark lanes, over good roads 
and bad ones the hansom passed and bumped, until at 
last the little window in the top of the vehicle was thrown 
open and our said in a loud whisper: 

“Tother ’ansom’s stopped, gents.” 

I glanced eagerly out of the window in front. Yes, he 
had spoken truly; the hansom had stopped, and a familiar 
form was alighting. A pressure upon my companion’s 
hand and he said for me: 

“Drive over to the sidewalk and we will alight.” 

He obeyed the order, and in five minutes I was stand- 
ing before the house which she had entered, Roger re- 
maining in the shadows upon the opposite side of the 
street. Being blind, he could not be of assistance, and so I 
placed him where he would not attract the attention of a 
chance passer-by, and crossed the street to the house that 
now interested me greatly. 

A three-story brick building, with outside shutters close- 
ly fastened, giving no evidence of being occupied. 

After studying the front of the house for a short time 
without result, the same dark gloom existing, I cautiously 
ascended the steps leading to the front door, and tried the 
knob. Fortune smiled upon me. The door was not 
fastened. 

“Strangely negligent,” I thought, pushing it open and 
entering the hall. 

The darkness of midnight reigned within, and, listen- 
ing, not a sound of life reached me. Waiting until my eyes 
grew accustomed to the darkness, I crept forward, de- 
termined to search the house until I found that one for 
whom I sought. 

Suddenly, without warning, a burst of light shone down 


226 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


upon me from above, and a female voice demanded nerv- 
ously: “Who is there?” 

Looking up, I saw the light came from a lamp in the 
hand of a woman who stood at the head of the stairs and 
who had asked the question. Fortunately the light did 
not reflect upon me, I at the time being close to the side 
of the staircase. I scarcely breathed for some minutes. 
“I must have been mistaken,” I heard the voice mutter, 
and then darkness reigned once more. 

The female figure was that of my wife. Her voice had 
spoken the words. 

She occupied rooms upon the second floor and close 
to the stairs. That was sufficient. All there remained for 
me to do was to wait until she had retired for the night 
and then begin my search for the child. 

I had probably lingered about ten minutes, when I 
thought of Roger. “He may grow alarmed over my long 
absence,” occurred to me, but I could not well leave the 
house. I feared that some one might lock the door during 
my absence, and then I would find it a difficult matter to 
regain entrance. So I came to the conclusion that it would 
be best to remain and trust to his perspicuity to explain 
my long absence. 

For nearly an hour I waited and then, coming to the 
conclusion that the inmates of the house must by this 
time be wrapped in slumber, I crept cautiously up the 
stairs. The utmost darkness reigned ; so I was obliged to 
exercise extreme caution as I groped my way. I suc- 
ceeded in reaching the top without making a misstep, and, 
following the baluster, saw the faint gleam of a light, shin- 
ing over the transom of a door before me. The turn in 
the staircase had hidden it until I was close upon it. “This 
must be the room,” flashed through my mind. Creeping 


CONFESSION OF LORKAINE HERSCHEL. 


227 


to the door, I listened. Faintly to my ears came the sound 
of regular breathing, indicating slumber. I tried the door; 
it was unlocked. The next moment I stood in the room. 

The subdued light of the night lamp shone directly 
upon the bed and those who occupied it — one, Ethel, my 
wife, her raven hair flowing back over the pillow, the other 
— my child, greatly changed since last I saw her. She 
had been but an infant then, now, seven years had passed 
over her head, but/ 1 knew her and I had found her! 

For an instant only did I gaze, and then, glancing rap- 
idly about the apartment, my eyes rested upon a long, dark 
cloak which was spread out over a chair — ^just the thing 
to fold about her! I stepped forward, passing near the 
dressing case. Providence was upon my side that night, 
for, as I glanced in the direction of the bureau, I saw the 
printed label of a vial standing with some others there. 
“Chloroform, poison,’^ I read. Noiselessly I removed 
the cork and applied the mouth of the vial to my nostrils. 
Yes, it was the subtle anaesthetic. I fully understood the 
proper use of the drug; so, saturating my handkerchief, 
I crept to the bed and, standing by the side of my sleeping 
wife, I applied it to her nostrils. A faint sigh, then an 
effort to turn the head away — then she became helpless. 
I considered a moment and then applied the handkerchief 
to the nostrils of the child. She soon succumbed to its 
influence. Throwing down the handkerchief, I seized the 
helpless little one and wrapped her in the cloak, then, with 
a feeling of joy, left the room, crept down the stairs and 
made my way out of the house. 

I found Roger awaiting me anxiously. 

“Thank God, you have returned safely,” he whispered 
as I stood by his side. 

I laid the child upon a doorstep and rapidly told him of 


228 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


my success. I had barely finished when a four-wheeled 
cab came rattling by. 

‘'Stop it,” I communicated to Roger. He did so. The 
cab drew up before u> 

“Drive us to the ‘Palace,’ Westminster,” ordered my 
friend, and soon we were on our way. 

I kept the child slightly under the influence of an 
anaesthetic the next day, while I did some shopping, pro- 
viding her with necessary clothing. This accomplished, 
we left London and the day following took passage on the 
ocean steamer, our mission successfully accomplished, 
myf child in my possession once more. 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


229 


CHAPTER XXVIL 

THE SHADOW OF MISFORTUNE. 

I deem it unneccessary to dwell upon the events of an 
voyage home. It is natural to suppose that, upon recover- 
ing consciousness, the child’s first cry was for her mother, 
and for three days she absolutely refused to be consoled or 
comforted. Upon Roger taking her in his arms and tell- 
ing her in his deep, loving voice, so tender and kind, that 
I was her father and would care for her in the future, she 
burst into a passion of childish tears, stamped her foot 
and said that' she had no father — her mamma had told her 
so; that we were both bad men, were going to kill her, and 
peremptorily demanded to be taken to her mother. 

Feeling that she might arouse suspicion in the minds 
of the officers or passengers if they heard her story, we 
deemed it advisable to keep her in the cabin, and by kind 
treatment reconcile her to me, and this plan was carried 
out, the little one being brought on deck but once during 
the voyage and then at night. 

But we landed in New York without any trouble and 
felt thankful that we were again in ^he land of the free. I 
half expected that an officer would meet us at the dock 
armed with a warrant for our detention, as I knew the 
mother would naturally feel her loss terribly, and would 
first of all blame me for the abduction, she knowing that 
I lived, and more, I had dropped my handkerchief that 
night in her apartment, and I feared that my assumed 


2E0 


CONFESSION OF LOREAINE HERSCHEL. 


name, known to her, was stamped upon it. But my fears 
proved groundless; no officer interfered with us, and 
without remaining in New York any longer than was ab- 
solutely necessary, we set out for Cincinnati. My rea- 
son for going to the principal city of Ohio, instead of Chi- 
cago, can be explained as follows: 

I had read some time before in an, English paper the 
advertisement of a private school for young girls, located 
at Russellville, Kentucky. The paper had stated that chil- 
dren would be taken and carefully brought up by compe- 
tent, kind teachers, and could be left by parents or guard- 
ians until of age. I came to the conclusion that this would 
suit my case exactly, and my companion sharing my views, 
we made an immediate step in that direction upon leaving 
New York. The child by this time had recovered her nat- 
ural gaiety of spirits to a great extent. Our never failing 
kindness, together with the purchase of a complete outfit 
of new clothing, seemed to win her over to us, and the nov- 
elty oB her new life furnishing a daily change of scene, she 
ceased her repining and expressed herself as satisfied. I 
felt delighted and anticipated no trouble from her. Kind- 
ness had won her. I determined to be ever so in my de- 
meanor. She should not want ; my child should be happy 
if my efforts could make her so. 

I have neglected to mention that during my term of 
service at the asylum I had invested my salary — ^$5,000 
per annum — in real estate in the city of Birmingham, 
Alabama. A boom in property chanced to increase the 
value of my possessions shortly after, quadrupling them in 
value. So I was not a poor man, nor a wealthy one, for 
that matter, but possessed of sufficient means to supply my 
needs. ' 

We arrived at Russellville, about dusk one evening, and 


CONFESSION OF LOKRAINE HERSCHEL. 


231 


were driven directly to the school. My darling was taken 
in charge by a kindly faced woman, the principal, and that 
night slept in her new home. We did not leave the little 
town for a week ; I wished to remain long enough to en- 
able Rachel to become acquainted and feel at home, and 
when at last we took our departure, Roger and I, it was 
with the feeling that she would be happy there. 

Upon the last day of our stay we told the principal a 
few facts concerning her charge. I entered her under the 
name of Rachel Allen, informed the matron that the child’s 
mother lived, but was hardly the woman to have custody 
of the little one; warned her to watch her closely, and 
keep me posted concerning her. 

“Her mother may find her,” I said in conclusion. “If 
so, be careful and watchful, and do not, under any cir- 
cumstances, permit her to leave your institution' unless ac- 
companied by some one you can trust.” 

The principal assured me that every care should be 
taken, and I took my departure, feeling satisfied in mind. 

“That woman can be trusted,” my friend remarked as 
we left the building, after bidding the child farewell. I 
agreed with him; I thought so myself. We had come to 
the conclusion that it would not be a wise thing to return 
to Chicago. If my wife did try to recover the child, that 
would very likely be the point where she would begin in- 
vestigation on this side of the Atlantic. We had traveled 
so long that it had almost become a second nature to us, 
and we agreed that for some time at least we would visit 
the principal cities and points of interest in our own coun- 
try. 

We went to New Orleans, then through Texas, and from 
El Paso started to make the tour of Mexico, and so a year 
passed pleasantly by. I now felt contented and happy, 


232 


C0OTE8S10N OF LORRAINE HERSCIIEL. 


and when, upon returning to the north, via Kentucky, we 
stopped at Russellville and found Rachel growing in sta- 
ture, beauty and knowledge, I was happier than I had been 
in years. 

During the years that followed we traveled over the entire 
continents of both North and South America — not rapidly, 
merely to get through with an inflicted task, but slowly, 
lingering even months in some places that seemed ta suit 
our fancies and afford us food for thought or appreciation. 
They were blissful, happy years to each of us, and when 
there was no more that we cared to visit we regretted that 
the world was not larger, that there was not some new 
unknown land that we might discover. 

Like the great Alexander, we sighed for fresh worlds — 
not to conquer, but to traverse. 

Six years passed. We returned to the United States, 
taking passage from Buenos Ayres to New York upon a 
sailing vessel. We were in no hurry, and so adopted that 
means of transportation. During our absence I had re- 
ceived monthly letters, both from the principal of the 
school and my darling. She wrote me that she was coming 
on nicely, was well satisfied, but longed to see her papa. 
She was at that time fourteen years of age, not a robust 
girl, the principal wrote me, but refined and lady-like, well 
developed, but slender. 

As she grew older I expended large sums upon her, even 
sending money to purchase a piano and several other 
musical instruments, money for dress, money for horses 
and things of like nature. 

Roger remonstrated with me. 

“You are foolishly extravagant,” he would say. “I be- 
lieve in doing anything for her good and future welfare, 
but you are overdoing it.” 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCIIEL. 


233 


But his words had no effect upon me. I would laugh 
and remit again. 

We arrived in New York and secured apartments at 
the old travelers^ stand-by, the Astor House. For nearly 
six months we lingered. I had given up all fear of being 
found by Ethel and took no precautions against discovery. 
I had made up my mind at least a score of times to visit 
Rachel, but each time put the proposed date of departure 
further away. Would that I had not done so. If I had 
gone when I first determined to do so, she would now be 
with me. The blow fell at last. It came as before, in the 
shape of a telegram from the school : 

‘‘Come at once,” it read. Only that; but the words fell 
like a dark shadow of evil upon my heart. I lost no time 
in answering it in person, and alone; Rogers was ill at 
the time, suffering from a severe cold. He insisted upon 
accompanying me, but the physician in charge feared 
pneumonia and told him so, and so, unwillingly, he per- 
mitted me to depart without him. 

I arrived at Russellville at about the same hour as when 
I had brought my darling nearly seven long years before. 
The same hackman drove me to the school (do hackmen 
ever die, I wonder?). The principal met me with a sad 
face. Using my tablet, I asked her what had happened. 

“Come into the parlor, sir,” she said. “The story is a 
long one, and I wish to explain everything.” 

I followed her. 

“It is concerning your daughter,” she began. 

I anxiously waited for her to continue, which she did 
in a few moments. 

“Two days ago a lady called, ostensibly to visit our in- 
stitution. She gave the name of Mrs. Branscombe, and 
seemed very much a lady. I took great pleasure in show- 


234 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


ing her about and introduced her to many of the elder pu- 
pils. Naturally, I felt some pride in my scholars, as I 
have ever taken great pains to advance them, and so — per- 
haps foolishly — I did my utmost to show the results of my 
years of teaching. Among others, I presented Rachel. 

I observed a peculiar look in the eyes of my visitor upon 
beholding her, but thought no more of it. 

“ This is Miss Rachel Allen? the lady inquired. 

“ ‘Yes, one of my brightest pupils,’ I replied. 

“She took the girl’s hand and led her to a sofa, and whis- 
pered a few words in her ear. The girl blushed percept- 
ibly. 

“ ‘I have been flattering her upon her beauty,’ my visitor 
explained to me, then, observing the magnificent piano 
which your money purchased for the use of your child, she 
asked : 

“ ‘Who performs upon that beautiful instrument?’ 

“ ‘I do, madam,’ replied Rachel. 

“ ‘Will you play for me?’ was the natural request. 

“ ‘Willingly,’ exclaimed the girl, and without waiting 
for a second invitation she sat down and played. 

“While she was performing one of my teachers entered 
the room and informed me that I was needed elsewhere. 
Thinking it no harm to leave them together, I excused 
myself and left the room. I observed that the music 
ceased a few moments later, but gave the circumstance no 
thought; there was nothing unusual in it to my mind. I 
was gone about fifteen minutes, and upon returning, as 
I was about to enter the room, heard these words, which 
caused me to pause, with my hand upon the knob: ‘You 
are my daughter, Rachel, and I, as your mother, have 
the best claim uppn your affections. I have told you the 
true story of my past life. I have been guilty of great 


CONFESSION OF LOKRAINE HERSCHEL. 


236 


wrong to your father, but I have suffered, and have found 
my punishment even greater than I deserved. You know 
all, my child. Turn not against me.^ 

'T waited to hear no more, but opened the door and 
entered. I found Rachel sitting, still before the piano, a 
look of horror in her beautiful eyes, while upon her knees 
beside her was the visitor, Mrs. Branscombe. She hastily 
rose at my entrance and began a confused apology. I 
interrupted her. 

“ Tt is not necessary, madam,’ I said. T have heard 
your last words and know who you are. This child has 
been placed under my charge by her father and I cannot 
permit any further conversation between you. You will 
oblige me by leaving my house.’ 

“I half expected a haughty reply, but it did not come. 
She seemed crushed utterly, and with one appealing glance 
at the girl slowly left the room and the house. I saw her 
to the door and then returned to Rachel. She had not 
stirred; she seemed as if turned to stone. 

“ ‘My child,’ I cried, approaching her, ‘confide in me, 
what has she told you?’ 

“My words aroused her. Turning her eyes upon me, she 
replied, in tones of despair: 

“ ‘I cannot; indeed, I cannot.’ 

“ ‘Who is this woman?’ I asked, knowing full well, but 
wishing to see how she would reply. 

“ ‘She is my mother. Oh, my poor mother! my poor 
father !’ 

“Then the tears came. For ten minutes she sobbed pas- 
sionately upon my breast. I tried to comfort her, en- 
deavored to persuade her to confide in me, but without 
effect. She refused to enlighten me. 

“All that day she wept and moaned, until the strain upon 


236 


CONFESSION OF LOlUiAINE HERSCIIEL. 


her nervous system brought about an attack of hysteria. 
I put her to bed and summoned our physician. 

“ ‘She has received a shock, heard bad news or some- 
thing,’ he said, and, leaving some medicine, took his de- 
parture, saying that he would return the following day. 
The morning came, and I hastened to her room to see 
how she had rested. To my dismay I found it deserted. 
Rachel was not there, but upon her dressing-table was 
this note. You can read it. It explains itself. I will say, 
before you read, that we have instituted search for her; 
so far without success. Up to this time she has succeeded 
in keeping her whereabouts a secret. I am nearly wild 
with grief — I loved her so.” 

I eagerly seized the note and with trembling hands 
smoothed out the sheet of paper and read: 

“Dear Miss Walton— I have thought it best to leave 
your sheltering roof. You cannot understand the terrible 
thoughts that urge me on, nor can I explain. If she comes 
again, tell her that the story of shame poured into my 
ears by her lips has caused me to do this. If my father 
asks, tell him that I know all, and he will not blame me. 
Thanks to his generosity I have a sufficient sum to support 
me for a long time, until I can find employment. I go 
out upon the world, to make a name for myself, at least 
to be free from the finger of scorn, which will be pointed 
at me when all is known, and I feel that it soon must be. 
Do not blame me, and let me go in peace. I shall never 
return to you. Your unhappy pupil, RACHEL.” 

I allowed the note to fall from my fingers. Unhappy 
fate! still pursuing me, even through my child. “Verily, 
the sins of the parents shall be visited upon the children.” 
God’s law, but is it a just one? My heart at that bitter 
moment repudiated the law of the Almighty. Cruel, not 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


287 


just or kind. My poor child! Gone out upon the world 
to escape from her mother’s sin, her father’s fall. At that 
moment I could not decide what was the best thing to 
be done. I felt utterl)^ crushed. Then came the eager de- 
sire to find her. She must not throw her young life away. 
Once found I could persuade her to abide with me, to for- 
get it all. I formed my plans. That my child had left the 
school would certainly come to the ears of Ethel. She 
would move heaven and earth to find her. She must not 
succeed, and my address must be kept from her. Through 
Miss Walton I would transact the business. I would em- 
ploy the most skillful detectives, and send them to her. 
She should be supplied with the necessary money to carry 
on the search, keeping my whereabouts a secret. When 
the girl was found then I could show myself. I dreaded 
a meeting with my wife. I did not wish to gaze; upon her 
face. I felt that I would kill her: Even that night when I 
had stood over her sleeping form, the temptation had 
come to me, but she had looked so beautiful, and the child 
was by her side, so I had put it from me. But now! I 
doubted my strength. Had she not brought upon me all 
my sorrow? Even through her our child was a wanderer 
this night. I felt almost overcome and Miss Walton ob- 
served it, for she said : 

“Bear up under this affliction, my friend. It will all be 
right.” 

I thanked her with my eyes, and then, composing my- 
self, communicated my plans to her. She eagerly agreed 
to assist me in any way that she possibly could, and so, 
arranging everything, I returned to my friend, the only 
one on earth that remained by me, a true friend, a loving 
companion. I found him convalescent, and eager to hear 
my story. I told him all, including the farewell note writ- 
ten to Miss Walton. 


238 


CONFESSION OF LOKKAINE HERSCHEL. 


His kind face darkened. 

“And your heart is sad, my friend. You yearn for your 
child, and the old feeling of bitter hatred against your 
wife has returned.” 

“Ten-fold,” I replied. 

“Wrong again, Henry,” he murmured. “She did it for 
the best. Surely, you do not think that in telling the story 
of her shame to her child she expected to turn her heart 
against you? No, not that. Shall I tell you what I think?” 

I pressed his hand. 

“You may doubt this, but, Henry, I believe that your 
long suffering wife would give the world to be reconciled 
to you again. I believe that in telling this story to your 
child she hoped to excite her sympathy, and through 
her bring you back to her. Think, my friend ; does it not 
seem likely?” 

“It might be so, but I can never call her wife again,” I 
replied. 

A deep sigh escaped him. 

“Well, be it so, my friend. Search for your child if you 
will, but depend on it, happiness will never come to stay 
until you are reunited a loving family. If you cannot 
bring yourself to believe this, at any rate, forgive her, 
Henry. God has proven to you his power. He has pun- 
ished her and is chastening you. Leave her to Him and 
drive these thoughts forever from you. For the past few 
years I have believed, and felt happy in that belief, that 
you had forgotten the past, but now I see that it was not 
so. Memory has not been dead, only sleeping. In spite 
of your happy exterior the same bitter recollections have 
been growing at your heart. Drive them from you. Be- 
gin a new life, even at this late day. Leave your sorrows 
and your child to God. He will right every wrong.” 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


239 


His tone, beseeching, eloquent, so worked upon me 
that I fell upon my knees and bowed my head. The tears 
came to my eyes and I wept, but it did me good. It re- 
lieved my oppressed soul, and when I again arose, it was 
with the fixed determination of following his advice. I 
would not sorrow nor grieve. She should be dri\ en from 
my heart and memory. My child, in the hands of the 
Almighty, could not suffer; the day would come when I 
should see her face once more. The search should be 
continued, and I would trust to that Providence who in 
the past had seemed to be against me to right the wrong 
and bring it about in his own divine way. 

My declaration brought joy to the heart of my be- 
loved friend. 

‘Thank God for this,” he murmured, clasping my hand. 

And so the story is ended. I have related it all, and left 
it, still incomplete. I will from this on record the events 
which may transpire. I know not what may come in the 
future; the past is told! 


240 


CONFESSION OF LOKRAINE HERSCHEL. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

WHAT THE FUTURE BROUGHT. 

We are quartered in a quaint, old-fashioned hotel in 
Baltimore, Roger and L From every indication, if ap- 
pearances count for anything, it must have been built at 
least fifty years ago. The ceiling of our room is very 
low, the windows narrow and old-fashioned, the door 
opens upon a dark, dusty hall that leads to a narrow, 
creaky staircase, which winds down to the dingy office 
below, where an ever busy and very loquacious individual 
officiates as day clerk and general manager of the institu- 
tion. Our accommodations are neither commodious nor 
elegant, but are comfortable and quiet. The noises from 
the street cannot reach us, and, although the view from our 
back window^ is of the most commonplace description, 
and the food is not remarkable either for quality or quan- 
tity, Roger cares nothing for the former and we partake 
of the latter only when from fatigue or lack of inclination 
we do not care to take our meals at a convenient restau- 
rant. 

We are satisfied and happy. I have grown attached to 
the old house during our stay here. I love it for what it 
has been, for at one time Brown’s hotel was a hostelry 
of some importance, and, although now old-fashioned, 
weather-beaten and falling into decay, in the years that 
have passed it occupied a prominent position among 
houses of its class, ranking among the best of them. It is 


CONFESSION OF LORKAINE HEKSCHEL. 


241 


SO quiet and peaceful here — a spot to rest and form plans 
for the future, for I still have a hope for something better, 
for a life made bright by the sunshine of a daughter’s pres- 
ence. She has not yet been found. I have expended hun- 
dreds of dollars without result, but I still hope and — pray, 
for I now approach my God without fear, trusting in His 
word. I have forgiven her, my erring wife, and am at 
peace with the world. Roger has done much to bring 
about this change. God bless him! Strange that the 
skilled sleuths employed in the search for my darling have 
not been able to learn anything concerning* her. I believe 
they have done all they could, but their efforts have so 
far proven unavailing. I cannot give up all hope. I feel 
that I must still keep up the search, although it seems 
but useless. To my mind comes the thought that just 
as long as I am striving to find her there is a cliance 
that some day I may. It brings me comfort and satisfies 
me to a certain extent. 

Roger is not with me in this. He often rates me for my 
extravagance in still paying detectives to follow up a 
blind trail, as he terms it, but I cannot give up. 

My dear companion has not been quite himself for sev- 
eral weeks. He is growing pale and care-worn ; a settled 
melancholy seems to have taken possession of him. I 
have asked to be taken into his confidence, but his replies 
are evasive. 

“It is my past, dear Henry,” he has said to me often. 
“It crowds in upon me at times. Some day you will know 
and understand,” and so I wait, await the opportunity of 
bringing to him comparative peace and content, as he has 
brought it to me. I have wondered at times why he shrinks 
from unbosoming himself to me. 

It is a peculiar trait of his sensitive character. I feel 


242 


CONFESSION OF LOKRAINE HEKSCHEL. 


that the secret is eating at his heart. I wish he would 
resolve to tell me all. Well, I will await his pleasure. 
Some day, perhaps, he will overcome the feeling that 
checks him, and open the way for my sympathy and added 
love, if such be possible. I love him so much already. 

I have made no new acquaintances in this beautiful old 
city. My affliction has proven an effectual barrier. I de- 
sire none. Roger suffices for me. One true friend is pref- 
erable to a number of careless, shallow chance acquaint- 
ances. Roger has done some better. He informed me 
of the fact, his usual, quiet, sad smile resting upon his lips 
while relating the occurrence, one morning upon my re- 
turn from my usual walk. He, feeling indisposed, had 
not accompanied me, contrary to custom. 

“I have had a visitor during your absence,” he began. 

I expressed my surprise. 

“And a lady at that,” he continued. “The young lady 
who cares for the rooms on this floor.” 

“The chambermaid?” I inquired, smiling. 

“Yes, but not of the ordinary class. If I am any judge 
of breeding, this girl has been educated a lady, brought 
up among refining influences. Her voice attracted my 
attention ; it is as soft and sweet as the voice of a lark.” 

“Yes?” I remarked rather absently. He noticed my lack 
of interest. I had pressed his fingers in reply mechanic- 
ally. 

“You do not appear deeply interested,” he said quickly. 
“If you had met this maiden you could not help but feel 
attracted toward her. I seldom notice anyone. I have but 
little in common with the people of the world with whom I 
come in contact, but, Henry, this girl is a creature of an 
unusual type. I feel that shd is beautiful. I know she has 
seen trouble.” 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


248 


“How can you know this?’^ 

“Her voice betrayed her. So sad, so touching, it went 
to my heart, Henry. It seemed to me that at some time, 
perhaps in my dreams, I had heard it before. If I could 
but have seen her face,’^ speaking regretfully. 

I aroused myself from the apathy that had controlled 
me when he had begun, and, feeling some interest now, 
remarked : 

“I will make it a point to see her for you, dear Roger, 
and then you shall know if you have judged aright.” 

“I am not mistaken,” he replied quietly. “The blind 
cannot see with their natural organs of vision, but through 
the eyes of the soul, by the means of the heart, they be- 
hold the beauties of character. Why, I have never gazed 
upon your face nor heard your voice, but my heart told me 
you were noble and good when my hand first clasped your 
own. I was not deceived in you, my loved companion, and 
I shall not be in this girl. You probably think it strange 
for me to feel so attracted ; it is not like me to notice any 
one particularly. I have found neither pleasure nor profit 
in past intercourse with the world, but there is a some- 
thing about this sweet-voiced maiden, a subtle influence 
that thrilled me when she spoke, a sensation of keen pleas- 
ure, not unmixed with pain, in the realization that she was 
near me. I have known the same feeling but once before, 
and,” here his voice grew softer, saddened and subdued, 
“that was in the past.” 

I must confess I felt surprised, but made no reply, as I 
could see by my companion's expressive countenance 
that his mind was living again in the days gone by. For 
several moments we both sat quietly in thought; he with 
his noble head bowed, mechanically holding my hand, 
then, arousing himself, as if with an eflfort, he said: 


244 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


“You must see her, Henry. We must know more of this 
girl.^' 

I acquiesced and withdrawing my hand from his warm 
clasp arose and walked to the small table which occupied 
the center of the apartment, beneath the gas jet, and began 
writing. This was the beginning of my friend’s season of 
melancholy. During the days that followed he has grown 
more and more repressed, much to my anxiety and dis- 
tress. Now he speaks but seldom, and goes out but little. 
He has talked with the girl, who seems to impress him 
so strangely, but I have never seen her, although I have 
made several efforts toward that end, even remaining in 
the room several mornings in succession, expecting she 
would come to make it up, but for some reason she has 
failed to do so, and I have been disappointed. When I go 
out then she attends to the necessary duties. The thought 
flashed upon my mind one day that she was purposely 
avoiding me. I mentioned my suspicion to Roger. 

“Why should she wish to avoid you?” he asked, by way 
of reply. 

I confessed myself at a loss to know. 

“It is purely accidental,” he remarked. “Some day you 
will meet her.” 

“Have you learned anything in reference to her early 
life — her name, or the causes that brought her here?” I 
questioned. 

“I have not asked her,” he replied. “I would not wish 
to appear curious. You know I am rather delicate about 
intruding upon the confidence of a stranger, more espe- 
cially a lady,” he added. 

I made no further remark, and the subject was dropped. 

A peculiar thing happened me last night. I have thought 
of it several times during the day, and, somehow, cannot 


CONFESSION OF LORKAINE HERSCHEL. 


246 


drive it from my mind. I had retired and, had been asleep 
and was in a state of semi-slumber, when there appeared, 
or seemed to appear, near my bed side the figure of a 
woman, robed in black. The room being in darkness, I 
could not distinguish her features, but from certain famil- 
iar movements oft noted in the past, I recognized my 
wife — Ethel ! 

The apparition startled me. With a hasty movement I 
sprang from the bed and made toward her, but when I 
reached the spot where I had thought she stood I found 
it unoccupied. She was not there. 

I lighted the gas and found the room as it had been 
when I had retired ; the door fastened, everything in order. 

I confess I felt startled. What could it have been? Had 
something occurred to my wife and was this her spirit, 
come to haunt me?” 

Becoming thoroughly awake, I drove this idea from my 
mind, and again sought slumber, which came to me after 
a time. I related the circumstance to Roger this morning. 
After absorbing the details, he looked thoughtful and said: 

“A strange occurrence, surely; but, my dear Henry, I 
am inclined to think you w^ere not awake when you fan- 
cied you beheld this figure, but dreaming. Some of these 
visions of the night are peculiarly realistic and conse- 
quently startling! Do you not agree with me?” 

It appeared too real to have been a dream, but there 
was no other way of explaining it, and so I accepted his 
theory. 

Was it a dream, or a warning? Does Ethel think of 
me? 

Ah me! Is she near me? If we could but live over 
again the days that are gone forever. 

My morning walk was longer than usual to-day. My 


246 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


mind felt disturbed from the occurrence of the night, and 
exercise is a wholesome tonic for depression, and so I 
walked quite a distance and it was nearly noon when I 
returned. 

I found Roger much excited when I entered the room. 

“The girl has just left me,” he cried, recognizing my 
step as I entered, “and she was not alone. There was a 
strange woman with her, and oh, Henry, this stranger 
I have known in the past. She is my past; ^twas she who 
was my life, my love !” 

I stared at him in blank surprise. For the first time 
in all the years we had been associated, inseparable, loving 
friends and companions, Roger had spoken of a phase in 
his life I had not even thought of. Had love wrecked his 
life as it had my own? 

Eagerly I grasped his hand, on my knees beside him. 

“Tell me,” I besought him, “tell me of her.” 

Silently and firmly he clasped my hand. Slowly the 
tears forced themselves from out his sightless eyes, then, 
with a sigh, the excited manner all gone, he replied : 

“To-night, dear friend, more than brother, you shall 
know my story. A strange influence urges me to tell you. 
To-night you shall know all.” 

And so I await the coming of evening. 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


247 


BOOK III. 

THE DAWNING OF A NEW DAY. 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

THE DARKEST HOUR. 

“And so I await the coming of evening.” Repeating the 
words unconsciously aloud, the detective turns the last 
page of the manuscript and, leaning back in his chair, gives 
himself up to thought. 

He begins to understand it all now — the sad, sad story of 
a life so full of promise, turned aside from the level path 
leading to a bright future, plunged into the miry depths 
of hopeless despondency and heart-rending despair by a 
woman’s thoughtless step, reveals to him much that was 
hidden, throws a light upon the mystery which has sur- 
rounded the horrible ending of Roger Deveaux’s life. 

The evening had come, the story had been told and then, 
and then — ^liad come the end. But how? 

Mrs. Branscombe is no other than the false wife of Lor- 
raine Herschel; Rachel Adler, the daughter he so fondly 
loves; Henry Allen, the wronged husband, and Roger 
Deveaux, who but the half brother, Ralph Dean, whose 
boyish infatuation for the companion of his early life has 
brought about the whole sad, horrible affair! 

But how had he met his death? Could the brother, sit- 


248 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


ting by his side, drinking in, the words that fell from his 
lips, wrought up to an unconquerable frenzy, have turned 
upon him and Really committed the deed? 

When the knowledge gradually dawned upon him that 
Roger Deveaux, his dearly loved companion, he who had 
formed a part of his unhappy life for so many years, he 
who had brought peace and a promise of a happy future, 
was Ralph Dean, the guilty half brother, had the love 
turned to hate, even as in the past, when the demon of 
revenge had entered his soul and taken supreme posses- 
sion of him? Had it conquered him again, caused him 
to take the life of his helpless companion while in a frenzy 
of rage? Was Lorraine Herschel actually guilty? 

This question the detective cannot answer satisfactorily 
to his mind. Slowly he goes back over the whole affair — 
the discovery of the body, Rachel Adler’s story, the visit 
from the woman, Allen’s or Herschel’s strange anxiety to 
suffer imprisonment — each feature in the peculiar case he 
carefully reviews, and then, rising from his position of 
thought, says half aloud: “Rachel and this woman know 
the facts of the case as they are. From them I can get at 
the truth. If Lorraine Herschel killed his brother then 
I am no judge of human nature. I do not understand 
character, but if he did not, who did? Who is the guilty 
one?” 

Mechanically he arranges the sheets of the manuscript, 
carefully rewraps them in the original paper and, taking 
the package, assumes his hat and leaves the room. 

He is going to Barnum’s hotel. Going to present him- 
self to the wife of the man who is incarcerated within the 
walls of the county jail and try to learn the whole truth if 
she knows it, and to his mind there seems no doubt of this. 
She has said enough to lead him to believe she can explain 
it all 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


249 


He has not breakfasted, but he feels not the pangs of 
hunger; so wrought up is the mind of the man that bodily 
wants form no part of his being, his heart and brain con- 
trol him ; he feels he must get at the bottom of all this be- 
fore he can give his attention to anything else, and so he 
hastens along the street, heeding not the throngs of pass- 
ers-by, crowding and pushing through them, regardless 
of their remonstrances and angry vexation, hurries along 
until his eye rests upon a cab drawn up to the curb, the 
driver standing at his horse^s head. 

‘"Engaged?” 

“No, sir,” and Treadwell has taken possession of the 
vehicle and is soon being driven to the hotel he has left but 
a few hours before, closely clasping the important packet 
to his breast, inwardly fuming that the horse cannot go 
faster. 

The longest journey has its ending and Barnum’s is 
finally reached. Throwing the driver his fare with some- 
thing extra, the detective springs up the staircase to the 
room occupied by the whilom Mrs. Branscombe. 

“She must surely be here; she would not leave while 
the manuscript remains in my possession.” Such are the 
thoughts that flash through his brain as he climbs the 
stairs. 

Breathless he pauses before the door of room 32. 

Tap-tap! he applies his knuckles. Yes, some one is 
within; footsteps are heard; the key turns in the lock, 
and the door opens. Rachel Adler stands before him. 
She turns pale when she recognizes the visitor, dark circles 
surround her soft, gray eyes. She looks care-worn and 
anxious. 

“Well?” she^articulates. 

“Mrs. Branscombe?” inquires the detective. 


260 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


“She is quite ill,” murmurs the girl, sadly, reproach- 
fully. 

“Permit him to enter,” a weak voice from within the 
apartment calls out, and the girl, obeying, opens the door 
still wider and stands aside, while Treadwell, feeling half 
ashamed and strangely diffident for him, enters. He un- 
derstands why Mrs. Branscombe is ill. He can explain the 
dark circles which mar the beauty of the girPs expressive 
eyes. His action in securing the packet has brought it all 
about, and he regrets the necessity w'hich forced him to 
make use of the means, although he is persuaded it was 
all for the best. 

The apartment is in a state of semi-darkness as he en- 
ters, the shades are drawn, a’nd the odor of camphor can 
be faintly detected. 

As his eyes grow accustomed to the half light, he per- 
ceives that the woman he has come to see is occupying a 
low rocker, a bandage about her head, a blanket thrown 
around her. He hesitates”, hat in hand, standing about the 
center of the apartment. 

The woman speaks. 

“You have come to see me, Mr. Treadwell?” she says 
in a low tone. 

“Yes; I wish to ask you a few questions,” he replies. 

A sigh wells up from her breast. 

“Do you not know enough?” she murmurs faintly. 

He advances a step toward her, his face flushing. 

“Pardon me for adopting a means of gaining possession 
of your secret which may not appear honorable nor fair,” 
he begins hurriedly, “but consider, madam, the exigencies 
of the position ; put yourself in my place. I am a detective 
officer. It is my duty to unravel the truth, and any means 
are justifiable when the life of a fellow man is at stake.” 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


261 


He pauses. She is breathing rapidly, her eyes fixed upon 
his face, her lips parted. 

“Go on,’^ comes from her lips. 

“You came to me and asked me to help you save Henry 
Allen’s life. You refused to explain certain matters. I 
had already sworn to know the truth and save him, if pos- 
sible, not believing him guilty. As you would not make 
me your confidant, I determined to learn all without you 
— against your wishes, if need be. Providence has aided 
me.” Here his voice softens and a tremor of sympathy 
can be detected as he proceeds. “I know the sad story. 
I have read it all ; but the end was not written. I have come 
to you to supply that which is lacking. Will you ?” 

A sob bursts from her lips, succeeded by another, end- 
ing in a burst of passionate tears, which brings the girl to 
her side. 

She kneels at her feet, and in her sweet voice says plead- 
ingly: 

“Do not distress yourself, my darling mother. Do not 
grieve; it is perhaps all for the best. Do not blame Mr. 
Treadwell; he has but done that which he considered his 
duty. He* has acted for the best.” 

“Go^ knows I have. Miss,” breaks in the man. “I 
would not willfully cause you sorrow. Its black shadow 
has already encompassed you enough in the past. I want 
to save you from future unhappiness. My desire is to 
bring about a happier period for you all !” 

The white hand -of the mother rests lovingly, caressingly 
upon the head of the child. With an effort she controls 
her grief and says: 

“I thank you, Mr. Treadwell, for your earnest, sincere 
expression of a noble feeling. I have ever trusted you, 
even before I first met you. I have never thought you 


262 


COISFESSION OF LOKRAINE HERSCHEL. 


other than a friend. Your dark suspicions wounded a 
heart already rent and torn by the bitter experiences of 
a dark past, and I had determined in the first mad impulse 
of a thwarted desire to attempt to ouwit you, and set 
you at naught. You have come off conqueror. I yield 
myself to circumstances.” 

“And you will tell me the rest — complete the story?” 
he cries eagerly. 

She looks up into his eyes, sadly, thoughtfully. 

“Why not?” she replies. “You already know the rest. I 
cannot see in what I should now be gainer by withholding 
the knowledge which, I will admit, is mine ; besides, I can 
understand that in order to clear the name of Lorraine 
Herschel, my — husband” (so sadly, almost fearfully, she 
mentions the name) “from stain. The truth must be 
known, and I alone can furnish it. But before 1 proceed 
I must exact a promise from you.” She pauses. 

“I will pledge you my word to anything which in honor 
comes within my power,” he assures her. 

She thanks him with her eyes. 

“It is this,” she says slowly. “This dark, shameful secret 
is known only to my husband, my daughter, yourself and 
me. What I shall tell you will suffice to free the heart- 
broken man, who even now^ is laboring under a false im- 
pression, and is plunged into the depths of despair from 
its effects. Need the story be known? Will it be necessary 
for you to divulge it to others? Can you not promise me 
you will keep it locked within your breast?” 

She has half risen from her reclining position, her voice 
and gestures eager, supplicating. 

Daniel Treadwell does not reply at once. He cannot 
divine what she has tq tell, does not know what bearing it 
will have upon the case. Finally he says slowly, weighing 
his words; 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


263 


“If what you have to tell me does away with the neces- 
sity of dragging your secret into the courts, I pledge you 
my word of honor, as a gentleman and a true man, that 
I will die sooner than, have it go any farther.” 

She sinks back in her chair with a sigh of relief. 

“I thank you,” she murmurs, “for now I can feel that 
there may yet be a hope for something brighter in the fu- 
ture. The sin has been committed, the sinners punished 
— ah, so severely — but the knowledge of the black stain, 
the shame of it all, can be hidden from the world, although 
its baneful effects must rankle in the hearts of the culprits 
forever. You will- not need to divulge what you have 
learned; forget it, if you can. Listen and learn how Roger 
Deveaux, as he called himself, Ralph Dean, whom he 
really was, met his untimely end.” 

She pauses, her breath coming and going fitfully; then, 
her arm about the neck of the kneeling girl, her eyes fixed 
vacantly upon the opposite wall, she murmurs, as if to her- 
self: 

“This is my darkest hour.” 

The true-hearted officer advances a step toward her and, 
occupying a chair but a few feet from that in which §he 
is reclining, replies softly: 

“It is said that the darkest hour is the one that precedes 
dawn. A brighter day is coming, Mrs. Herschel ; depend 
on it.” 

“God grant it,” she cries, casting a look of earnest sup- 
plication above her; and the lips of the kneeling maiden 
form the one word: 

“Amen.” 


264 CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

** A RAY OF LIGHT.’' 

Without further hesitation, the wife of Lorraine Her- 
schel begins: 

“You have read my liusband’s version of the almost un- 
pardonable act of which I was guilty,” speaking in a low, 
even, but somewhat hurried tone, “but I would tell you, 
Mr. Treadwell, before proceeding farther, that I am inno- 
cent of the baser sin he has laid at my door. I have never 
forgotten my honor for one single moment since the un- 
happy hour I crossed the threshold of our home and put 
happiness from me. 

“I loved Ralph. I need not deny it. I do not attempt 
to, and, taking everything into consideration, what is there 
to excite wonder in the fact that I, a young, innocent girl, 
knowing absolutely nothing of the world outside our fam- 
ily circle, should grow to love the inseparable companion 
of my early life? 

“With Lorraine the feeling was of a different nature. I 
loved him, but not in the same way I looked upon Ralph. 
To begin with, he was ten years my senior, and as a child 
I looked up to him as children will to* those of a more ma- 
ture age, as a being possessed of greater information and 
power. I was but a child when he entered college, and as 
the years rolled by, bringing him seldom home to visit us, 
it is but natural that I should cease to think of him, even 
as I had in the past, and devote almost the entire affection 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


255 


of my years of dawning womanhood upon his half brother, 
who was ever at my side. 

“Marriage had never been mentioned between us. In 
our happy, careless, peaceful existence the thought of a 
day of separation never occurred to either of us. We were 
children, even up to the age when' wisdom begins to come 
to most of mankind. Ralph was just as much of a boy at 
nineteen as he bad been at ten, and I at the same age could 
detect no difference in myself, save that of a greater power 
to enjoy the blissful life which we followed. The first 
thought of a change in after life was given me by my 
mother some months before she left me. While we were 
alone one day she spoke of the time when my girlhood 
would cease and the responsibilities of marriage rest upon 
me. 

- “ Tt has always been my desire that you should wed 
Lorraine,’ she told me. ‘He loves you, I know, and will 
soon be in a position to offer you a happy home. When 
he speaks to you upon this subject you will understand it 
all.’ 

“For some reason I felt saddened; not particularly at 
the prospect of a marriage with Lorraine — at that time it 
never occurred to me that it would make any great differ- 
ence whom I married when, the time came, just as long as 
it did not mean separation from those I loved. I was, as 
you can understand, wofully ignorant. Time brought 
knowledge and with it a bitter experience. It was the 
thought that old age must come to me that caused my 
mother’s words to cast a shadow over my young heart. 
Sorrow seemed to rest upon all of those who were aged 
that I had ever known ; gray hairs and wrinkles and fail- 
ing sight seemed their portion, and it came to me in the 
first few moments that I one day must be the same as they, 


266 


CONFESSION OF LORE AIN E HERSCHEL. 


and the cloud descended upon me, darkening the summer 
sky of my bright existence. But it did not remain long, 
and in a short time I had forgotten it all, continuing on, 
happy, peaceful, joyous. 

“The death of my mother was the first blow that came 
to change my life. I loved her so, and it seemed to me 
at the time that I could never recover from the effects 
of it. Lorraine was with us, and his gentle, unobtrusive 
sympathy made him very dear to me. He was so kind, so 
thoughtful. Ralph being at college, I was naturally 
brought into a closer relationship with him than I had 
been for many years, and so, when he proposed marriage 
to me, he found my heart yearning for some one to fill 
the place left vacant by my mother’s death. Her words re- 
turned to me, and, realizing that it would have made her 
happy to have seen me the wife of this noble man, I ac- 
cepted him. 

‘T did not mention the circumstance to Ralph in my 
letters to him. I supposed Lorraine would inform him, 
and really gave it no thought. I did not know how he 
loved me, had no suspicion that he, too, desired me for 
his wife. If he had spoken to me in time all the misery 
and shame of the succeeding years would have been 
averted, but alas, he failed to do so, and when my kind 
protector passed) away, leaving me with no one to look to, 
I became the wife of the man whose life I have darkened. 
It is needless for me to go over the particulars of my 
brief married life. You are already in possession of the 
facts. You, understanding my feeling for Ralph, can 
comprehend the effect of his letter upon me, that letter 
unwillingly given me by my husband. It opened my 
eyes. I then dor the first time knew how mucb he loved 
me, and the thought that that love had driven him away, 


CONFESSION OF LORKAINE HERSCHEL. 


267 


had brought about our separation, filled my heart with a 
sorrow profound and lasting. 

“The birth of my darling,” pausing to caress the shining 
hair of the girl, “brought about a change. The great love 
of my soul became centered in the helpless little one, and 
to Lorraine, the father, my husband, I turned with a 
deeper affection than I had felt for him since reading 
Ralph’s unhappy letter. 

“I became happy again; my life seemed unbroken by a 
thought of sorrow, and it would have probably continued 
had it not been that Ralph, unable to longer exist without 
hearing from me, wrote me a long, wild, erratic letter, 
eagerly requesting a reply. 

“I acceded to his request and then began a correspond- 
ence, unknown to Lorraine, that led me to take the step 
that has ruined the lives of three and brought about the 
untimely end of one.” 

She pauses, unable to proceed, for the tears that are forc- 
ing themselves from out her eyes. 

The detective remains silent for a moment and then 
says, hopefully: 

“The end has not come. Although the past has been 
unfortunate, marked by misery, shame and ruin, the fu- 
ture yet remains for you three. One has gone, true; but 
your husband, your daughter are still left to you, and she 
is already with vou. He ” 

“I fear he may not return to me,” she hastily interrupts. 
“He is so unforgiving. He has been carried away by dark 
suspicions that have tended to make matters ever so 
much worse. I fear he will not listen to an explanation.” 

“I will assume that task,, my mother,” speaks the girl. 
“He will listen to me.” 

A ray of hope illumines the face of the mother. 


258 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


“God grant it,” she murmurs, and then, with a sigh, says: 
“But I must continue my narrative. I have already made 
it long and tedious.” 

Treadwell awaits her pleasure and in a short time she 
proceeds : 

“The act of leaving home was purely an impulsive one. 
I had just received Ralph^s imploring letter and all of the 
love of my youth returned to me. It seemed increased ten- 
fold. I felt that I could not live without him, and without 
stopping to consider the result, I wrote that cruel letter 
that turned my husband^s tender heart to stone, and, mak- 
ing hasty preparations, turned my back on that peaceful 
home, and began the journey to the man who loved me, 
and — whom I loved. 

“I secured the money which I knew my husband had 
left in his desk. I intended returning it later. In my haste 
I did not stop to consider anything; rashly, impulsively, 
I desired to be with Ralph to soothe him, to bring him 
peace and happiness. I did not pause to think of the ef- 
fect of my act upon Lorraine; that never came to me until 
I was far on my way, and then I resolved to return. Yes, 
I had fully determined to go back to him ; but even while 
the thought found lodgment in my brain, there came an- 
other. Lorraine had probably returned home by that 
time and so knew all. With a feeling of heartrending re- 
morse I began to realize that I could not face him, know- 
ing that my letter had been read by him, the letter in which 
I had said, T do not love you.’ 

“No, I must continue on the way I had taken. I would 
go to Ralph and accept the consequences. Then, like a 
ray of hope, came another idea. I could go to Ralph and 
persuade him to return with me, give up his unhappy life 
away from us, and become a member of our family circle. 


CONFESSlOK OF ’LOKRAINE HERSCHEL. 


269 


I would explain my hasty action to my husband, confess 
my sin, and ask his forgiveness. I felt that it would be 
granted, and we would be happy again. Perhaps my 
hasty step might prove to be for the best, after all; it might 
be the means of reuniting the brothers and bring about the 
peace and joy of former years. 

“This fancy brought me comfort, and when I arrived at 
my journey’s end and found Ralph waiting for me upon 
the platform of the station (I had telegraphed him of my 
coming from a point along the route) I lost no time in 
unfolding my plan to him after the first greetings were 
over with, and we had reached his comfortable home. 

“At first he appeared thoughtful. 

“ ‘How can I go to him after this?’ he said, his brows 
set in thought. 

“ ‘Lorraine is generous and kind. He will hear us, and, 
knowing all, forgive us. Christ forgave the sins and weak- 
nesses of others. Lorraine is a servant of the Master,’ I 
replied. 

“It was finally arranged that we should return together, 
and the day following was passed in making preparations 
toward that end. That night Lorraine came.” 

Here she pauses again for a moment, but continues al- 
most immediately: 

“You know, Mr. Treadwell, of the terrible events of that 
night. I never expected to behold my husband in such 
a state of demoniacal rage; he was not at all like himself. 
He must have been crazed. We could not explain; he 
would not listen. He seemed bent on destroying both 
Ralph and myself, a fiend incarnate seemed to possess 
him, and his frenzied actions brought about the destruc- 
tion of all, placed us beyond the possibility of retraction. 
My action was cruel, heartless; his proceeding was devil- 


260 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


ish. Yet, I cannot blame him. I do not wish to justify 
my position nor shift the blame upon him. I regret the re- 
sults, have paid a hundred-fold the penalty of my thought- 
lessness. 

“In the fire, which burned the house, Ralph lost his eye- 
sight. He was severely burned in trying to save me. I will 
bear the mark of it to my grave.’’ Here the tears begin 
to fall again^ With difficulty she represses them and goes 
hurriedly on. 

“For weeks we were obliged to remain in seclusion; 
then, at Ralph’s request, I began looking for an asylum 
for the blind. 

“ ‘We must separate,’ he said sadly. ‘God has sorely 
punished us. You had best return to your home; 
it will never be known that you left it, save in an ordinary 
way. Lorraine and the child have perished; you and. I 
alone are left — I, God helping me, a better man. Devote 
your future to the care of the poor and needy. I shall be- 
come a teacher of the blind when I first am taught.’ 

“I did not attempt to dissuade him. I felt heartbroken 
and weary of life, and it made no difference to me what 
became of me, what my future might be, and so I obeyed 
him and in a week he became an inmate of the asylum at 
Buffalo, while I returned to the home I had deserted and 
left desolate but a few short weeks before. The years that 
followed brought me little but remorse and deep despair. 
I need not review them. You know most of the circum- 
stances of my connection with the story of my husband’s 
life, and that is what we are aiming to make clear. I will 
pass briefly to the day when I found my darling in Miss 
W'alton’s seminary at Russellville, Kentucky. My meeting 
with her was purely accidental. When I had lost her in 
England I was almost heartbroken. I recognized the 


CONFESSION OF LOKRAINE HERSCHEL. 


261 


hand of my husband in her abduction, and felt that God 
had willed it that he should discover her. Although frantic 
with grief, I resolved to give her up. I had ruined the 
prospects and wrecked the life of her father; was it not 
right that he should obtain some happiness through his 
child? And so, after a severe struggle, I resigned myself 
to abide by the will of ‘Him who ruleth all things well,’ and 
returned to the United States, where I secluded myself 
among the mountains of New York, a sad, broken-hearted 
woman. 

“The desire to return to the world, to be among those 
of human kind again, came to me one day, and with it a 
feeling that I should feel more content among children 
and growing girls, where I could instruct and teach them 
to love me; in fact, to make something of a life hitherto 
wasted. I would endeavor to secure a position as teacher 
in some institution for young ladies. 

“This resolve led me to Russellville, and there I met my 
darling one after all these years; but alas, my mother’s 
love got the best of my judgment. I felt that I must make 
myself known to her, and, an opportunity presenting it- 
self, I did so, with the result that you already know. I 
was not instrumental in Rachel’s departure from the 
school. I did not urge her to leave, but she, knowing the 
sad story of my life (I told her the principal facts while 
there) felt an abhorrence of meeting her school compan- 
ions after that, and so, without a thought of the rash step, 
she was taking, determined to go out upon the world. I 
shudder to think what would have been her fate; but that 
Providence who has watched over our lives through it all 
directed her aright and brought her to me. 

“I chanced to be a passenger upon the train that bore 
her from Russellville. I saw her when she entered the 


262 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


car, pale and anxious, and when we were some miles away 
I approached her, my heart filled with thankfulness that 
we were together. 

“At first she shrank from me, but I finally succeeded in 
overcoming her foolish fancies and she consented to re- 
main with me. 

“I took her to Cincinnati, where we remained in seclu- 
sion for several months, and then, feeling confident that 
we would not be discovered, I began a search for my hus- 
band. I had determined to go to him, and, working 
through his love for Rachel, endeavor to bring about a 
reconciliation. 

“Our search was a long one. He had adopted the plan 
of stopping at secluded hotels in the cities he visited with 
his blind companion — poor, dear Ralph, and this rendered 
our task a difficult one, but at last we found them in this 
city. They were stopping at Brown’s hotel, and had 
been there but a few days. Rachel was successful in se- 
curing a menial position in the house. We felt that, being 
near them, in time she could make herself known and 
bring about the result we both so earnestly desired ; but that 
natural diffidence which forms a conspicuous trait of her 
character held her back, although she became acquainted 
with' Ralph and in a short time would have brought about 
a meeting with her father. Her duties in the hotel were 
rather more than she could accomplish, and so I assisted 
her, coming to the house in the early morning between 
the hours of five and seven and remaining there, doing 
what I could without discovery, until the work was com- 
pleted. Sometimes I would remain with her at night — 
her apartment was in a remote part of the building, and 
I was comparatively free from the danger of discovery. 
One day, at her solicitation, I accompanied her to the 


CONFESSION OF LORKAINE HERSCHEL. 


263 


room occcupied by Lorraine and Ralph. For the first 
time in long years I gazed upon the scarred face of the 
companion of my youth. The tears came to my eyes as I 
looked upon his sightless orbs, and that remorse, which 
had become to a great extent quieted, arose again to tor- 
ment me. I spoke to him, and my voice betrayed me; he 
partly arose from the chair he was occupying and put out 
his hands as if to take me in his arms. The movement was 
an unconscious one, I know; but it proved to me that he 
still loved me, and fearful of further betraying myself, I 
hastened from the room, and none too soon, for I had 
barely reached the hall when the sound of approaching 
footsteps reached us from the stairs and Rachel, crying 
half aloud in a frightened voice, exclaimed: ‘Mr. Allen — 
father — is returning !’ I opened the door of the room ad- 
joining and entered it, while Rachel, springing across 
the hall, found a hiding place in an alcove. I heard him 
enter the room, and the conversation that followed in- 
formed me that my suspicions had not been without foun- 
dation. Ralph had recognized my voice, had felt my pres- 
ence. 

‘T heard him promise to tell the story of his past to his 
companion; that night all would be known, Lorraine 
would hear the truth and know that Roger Deveaux was 
Ralph Dean, his half brother. 

“What would come of it? I dreaded to conjecture. 
Might not he turn upon his helpless companion — his blind 
brother — even as he had upon me in the past? Might not 
the slumbering demon within him become aroused, and 
urge him on to some mad act of vengeance? 

“I trembled with apprehension, feeling thankful, how- 
ever, that I had overheard them, determining to be near 
during the relation of Ralph^s history, and prevent any 
scene of violence. 


264 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


“I did not take Rachel into my confidence. Why alarm 
her unnecessarily? I felt competent to check any out- 
break, even if it came, and, perchance, I would not be 
called upon to make my presence known. I left my hid- 
ing place and the house, but returned at nightfall, and tell- 
ing Rachel I wished to go to the room I had occupied in 
the morning — the one next to the fatal room 47 — I left her 
without vouchsafing an explanation, promising to return 
soon. 

“I hurried through the dark hall-ways until I stood be- 
fore the door of room 45. Cautiously turning the knob, 1 
opened the door and entered. The room was in total dark- 
ness, or at least appeared so at first, but upon glancing to- 
ward the ceiling, I detected a ray of light piercing the gloom 
— a bright, radiant arrow, proceeding from the adjoining 
room, forcing its way through an aperture of some charac- 
ter, and explaining why I had been enabled to overhear 
the conversation of the morning so distinctly. 

“Investigating, I found the light came through a round 
hole, about one inch in diameter, probably a gas pipe, or 
something of a like nature, had at one time penetrated the 
wall, and when removed had left the opening which for 
some reason had never been filled up nor covered over. 

“It was some two feet over my head. I was obliged to 
stand upon a chair, in order to ascertain its character, and 
standing there I applied my eye to the opening and found, 
to my satisfaction, that it afforded me a view of the in- 
terior of room 47. I could both see and hear, and thus 
came to me the knowledge which I will now relate, and 
which will clear away the mystery surrounding the death 
of Ralph Dean. 


CONFESSION OF LOEBAINE HERSCHEL. 


266 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

THE SKY GROWS BRIGHTER. 

Pausing, Mrs. Herschel (as we must now call her) re- 
quests a glass of water; her voice has grown hoarse, and 
her lips seem parched. 

The girl hastens to obey her, resuming her kneeling po- 
sition, having satisfied her mother’s demands. 

Treadwell awaits the development with bated breath; he 
now pities this woman more than ever. He has heard the 
other side of the story, and recognizes the fact that she is 
not; all to blame in the matter. Her action has been more 
thoughtless than criminal, a rash step, impulsively taken. 
Refreshed by the draught, the wife proceeds: 

“Ralph had begun, when I assumed my position, and I 
could see by the expression upon Lorraine’s face that he 
was deeply interested, the passing emotions of his mind 
being demonstrated through the ever-changing expres- 
sion of his eyes. Ralph was talking slowly, his voice sad, 
the muscles of his face twitching. Lorraine held his right 
hand in his own; it was his usual custom,' as you have 
learned by reading this narrative, and only means of com- 
munication with his companion. 

“I could hear every word. The speaker was relating the 
happy days of youth, and as the words fell from his lips, 
I could see that my husband had begun to suspicion what 
was coming. The truth was beginning to dawn upon him. 

“Finally, his face pale and set, his eyes fairly burning, a 


266 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


Stern, hard rigidity of lips denoting a fearful struggle go- 
ing on within, he checked the speaker, and I could tell by 
the movements of his fingers that he was asking him a 
question. 

“The reply came: 

“ ‘No, my name is not Roger Deveaux,’ fell from the 
lips of the other. ‘You shall know it soon. Be patient, 
dear Henry.’ 

“Again the quick, agile fingers began their work. 

“ ‘Why should you wish to know at once?’ asked 
Ralph; ‘and, Henry, you are agitated; you are nervous; 
what is the matter?’ turning his blind eyes upon him. 

“The white hand of Lorraine again clasped that of his 
companion, evidently persisting in his inquiry. 

“ ‘You shall know then,’ slowly said Ralph. ‘My name 
is Ralph Dean ; that of my brother, Lorraine Herschel.’ 

“God spare me from ever witnessing such another 
scene of anguish as that my eyes then rested upon. As the 
words struck upon the ear of Lorraine, he started back in 
awful despair, dropping the hand of his brother, and cov- 
ering his eyes with both, his own, sprang to his feet, his 
body writhing with suppressed agony. Backward, for- 
ward, the width of the room, he paced, like an enraged 
lion, poor blind Ralph, sitting silently moving his head 
from side to side as the sound of his companion’s steps in- 
formed him of his position. 

“Amazement was plainly depicted upon his face, which 
at last found utterance. 

“ ‘Henry, my dearly loved companion, where are you? 
Why have you left my side?’ he cried, anxiously. At his 
words Lorraine halted suddenly, his hands dropped to his 
side, and I could see his face. It was as one cut in marble, 
white, horrified, looking ghastly beneath the snow-white 


CONFESSION OF LOKRAINE HERSCHEL. 


267 


hair of his head, in the bright light of the gas jet. 

“For a moment he paused, and then slowly approached 
his companion, until he stood almost over him. Feeling 
him near him, Ralph put out his hands to touch him, his 
face so sad, growing more anxious and alarmed. 

“At the gesture Lorraine stepped aside, shuddering and 
nervously twitching his fingers; putting out his hand to 
steady himself, it rested upon the table. 

“I saw him start, take up something from the table, and 
then turn toward his blind, anxious companion. I cast 
one horrified glance at the object he held within his grasp. 

“It was a razor — open, the light shining upon the bright 
blade. I saw the demon in his eyes, and feared the horrible 
sequel might come without my being able to prevent it, 
but at that moment Ralph spoke again, rising from his 
chair. 

“ ‘Dear Henry, you alarm me,’ he said, going toward 
him. ‘Has aught in my story, as far as you have heard it, 
taken you back to your unhappy past, reviving memories 
that have brought about this agitation which I can feel is 
possessing you? Come, dear old man, tell) me.’ 

“The razor fell from the hand of my husband, his bosom 
swelled with grief almost beyond description. With one 
heart-rending glance into the face of the man he loved 
better than life, his only companion for years, who was 
slowly groping his way toward him, he turned aside, avoid- 
ing him, and opening the door of the apartment, rushed 
out into the hall. I heard his hurried footsteps growing 
fainter. I ran to the door, and opening it, listened; yes, 
he was descending the stairs. 

“Without a thought of the consequences, I ran into the 
room he had just left. There stood the helpless, afflicted 
man in the center of the apartment, one hand outstretched 


268 


CONFESSlOISr OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


as if to grasp some object, the other extended in a gesture 
of surprise. Hearing my steps, he turned his startled face 
upon me. 

“ ‘Ah, you have returned,’ he cried. ‘Why did you leave 
me so suddenly?’ I began to feel decidedly alarmed. ‘It is 
not your companion,’ I said, hurriedly. ‘It is I — Ethel. 
Oh, Ralph! Oh, Ralph!’ His face became suffused with 
radiance. 

“ ‘Ethel,’ he murmured. ‘Has he, Henry, found you 
and sent you to me? Is that why he became so agitated, 
and left the room so hurriedly?’ 

“ ‘No, no!’ I cried, my heart beating with a strange feel- 
ing of coming evil. ‘No, Ralph, that is not it. Oh, can 
you not surmise, do you not know who Henry Allen, your 
companion, really is?’ 

Wondering amazement rapidly gave place to a growing 
sense of realization. His lips grew pale, his breath began 
to grow short and labored. 

“ ‘Who is Henry Allen?’ he demanded at last, his voice 
sounding unreal, hoarse and unnatural. 

“ ‘Oh, that I should be the one to tell you !’ I cried in 
agony of spirit; ‘but you must know; it will all come soon. 
Ralph, Henry Allen is your brother, my husband, Lor- 
raine Herschel.’ 

“For a moment he stood motionless, his face stern and 
set, staring out from his sightless eyes into darkness. 
Then, as it; all dawned upon him, he staggered and would 
have fallen had not his hand seized the edge of the table, 
which supported him. 

“At last his lips began to move, his head to sway — I 
standing powerless to move, watching him as if spell- 
bound. 

“ ‘Lorraine, Lorraine — the man I wronged in the past. I 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


thought him dead. I have mourned him for years. Lor- 
raine, my brother — my suf¥ering brother, and I have done 
it all; and Rachel, why, she is his child, your child; she 
lives as well. This is too much. Oh, God, why have I 
lived to know the suffering, the untold misery I have 
brought upon the man who has been my dearly loved 
friend for years? Why have I lived to know it? Would to 
God I could die. I no longer wish to live.^ 

“Unconsciously in his anguish his hand kept groping 
about the table, and at last fell upon the razor dropped by 
Lorraine. 

“ ‘Ah, the means is at hand,’ he cried, his face lighting 
up. ‘Farewell, Ethel. Good-by, Lorraine. God forgive 
me.’ 

“Before I could stop him he had drawn the shining 
blade across his white throat, the blood gushed forth in a 
crimson stream, and with a gasp and a horrible gurgling 
sound, he fell upon the floor before me — dead !” 

He Jjc 4s * * 

“Quick ! Some water. She is fainting,” cried the detec- 
tive, springing forward to the aid of the exhausted woman, 
who, turning deathly pale, sways and falls forward. 

He catches her in his arms while the girl, alarmed and 
giving evidence of great anxiety, hurries to the commode 
and obtains the water and the bottle of camphor. 

A few minutes suffices to restore the fainting woman 
to consciousness. Gently removing his supporting arm, 
Treadwell resumes his chair, saying: 

“If you feel too weak to continue the recital, dear Mrs. 
Herschel, do not attempt it. The mystery is now clear to 
my mind, and the rest can wait.” 

Faintly, her voice trembling, she replies: 

“No. It is best to complete that which I have begun,” 


270 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


then, with a wan smile, “I am not subject to fainting spells, 
as they are termed. I did not give way when the horrible 
event occurred,” shuddering. “It came so suddenly that it 
was all over, and poor Ralph beyond earthly hope before 
I had begun to realize what he had done.” Her voice dies 
away in a weary, whispering tone. 

Treadwell sits silently gazing upon her pale, beautiful 
face. How this woman has suffered ; how much more suf- 
fering she has brought others — and the end is not yet. Has 
the future anything in store for her but continued and life- 
long sorrow? Will the clouds of adversity ever pass away? 
He cannot surmise, but his sympathies are keenly active, 
and he has resolved that now that he knows all of the cir- 
cumstances, his work for the near future is laid out, 
his plans formed, and to the object of bringing this sep- 
arated family together, to bring about a reconciliation be- 
tween husband and wife, with the assistance of the girl, 
who, he feels, will be of vast service in this project. She 
speaks again, this weak, beautiful woman; her words 
break in upon the meditations of the honest-hearted detec- 
tive. 

“I must conclude,” she is saying. “You do not know 
why Lorraine, innocent of the crime, is suffering impris- 
onment, and at his own desire and solicitation, and, be- 
lieve me, Mr. Treadwell, this is the hardest part of the en- 
tire sad story for me to tell, but it is important that you 
should know all, in order to thoroughly comprehend my 
position. 

“As Ralph fell to the floor, the razori with which he had 
rashly ended his life, fell from his hand, directly at my 
feet. For the moment I stood transfixed with horror, un- 
able to move, or even cry out, and then, without any clear- 
ly defined motive in view, stooped and picked up the blood- 
stained implement. 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


271 


“It was an act of unconscious intent. I scarcely knew I 
had done so. 

“At that moment the door was flung hastily open, and 
Lorraine entered the room ! He saw me first, and his burn- 
ing eyes rested full upon my face, with a dark, suspicious, 
inquiring glance. I cannot even imagine his thoughts. 
I shudder when I recall that glance. 

“Then, looking past me, he saw the body of the man he 
loved. With a rapid gesture he waved me aside. Uncon- 
sciously I obeyed him, and then, approaching the corpse, 
he fell upon his knees, raised the dear head, gazed long 
upon the ghastly face, and quivering, trembling with an 
emotion which he could not express, gave vent to a sorrow 
so deep and profound that the memory of it almost pre- 
vents me from relating it. Oh, God, how he must have 
suffered. Again and yet again, he pressed his lips to the 
lifeless lips — the blood staining his hands and clothing. 
Silently I stood gazing upon his anguish and then, unable 
to restrain myself — I believe I should have gone mad to 
have remained longer silent — spoke his name: 

“ ‘Lorraine r 

“With a quick, impetuous motion, he laid the body upon 
the floor, and springing to his feet confronted me. Again 
his eyes darted an inquiry, but before I could reply, fell 
upon the instrument of death I still held in my hand. 

“For one brief, terrible moment, he stared, and then, his 
face blanched, his expressive features conveying the awful 
thought that had entered his brain, he slowly raised his 
hand and pointed to the razor. 

“In my agony of terror I could not speak. My tongue 
seemed paralyzed, my throat parched and dry. 

“He waited for me to speak. I essayed to say some- 
thing, but could not; then, as if fully persuaded that his 


272 CONFESSION OP LOKRAINE HEKSCHEL. 

suspicions were correct, he cast one glance upon the 
corpse, and with his hand upraised, directed one accusing 
finger full in my face, repeating the gesture again and 
again. 

“At last my tongue obeyed me. ‘No, no!’ I cried, ‘I am 
not guilty of this crime. No, no, Lorraine. You cannot 
surely believe that my hand destroyed him.’ 

“Falling upon my knees at his feet, I clasped my arms 
about his knees, sobbing, almost crazed. 

“I felt his hands upon me, gently assisting me to rise, 
and upon looking into his eyes, saw that they were filled 
with tears. Sadly pointing to the razor, which I still held, 
but which I flung aside at his gesture, he slowly shook his 
head, and turning from me, mechanically walked toward 
the door. 

“I quickly followed him. 

“ ‘Hear me, Lorraine,’ I cried. ‘Hear me. I have been 
guilty of wrong in the past, but not of this horrible deed. 
For God’s sake, hear me.’ He gave no evidence of having 
heard me, only slowly walked away. 

“Rapid footsteps in the hall warned me that some one 
was approaching. He also heard them, and made a mo- 
tion as though to close the door. Before he could do so, 
however, al slight form came in view, and with a sensaticA 
of immeasurable dismay, I recognized Rachel. 

“She had become alarmed at my long absence, and had 
come to find what had occasioned it. 

“He saw her at the same moment, and in an instant rec- 
ognized her. With one stride he gained her side, the next 
moment had clasped her in his arms, and was raining 
kisses upon her face, and then, casting her almost rough- 
ly from him, rushed past me to the table. 

“I followed his movements with my eyes. Saw him take 


CONFESSION OF LOERAINE HERSCHEL. 


273 


from the drawer in the table a package of manuscript. 
With one stride he had reached my side, and forcing the 
packet into my hands, rushed like a madman out into the 
hall, and left me standing staring at the papers, Rachel 
looking in absolute bewilderment about her. 

“I approached her, and took her hand, saying: 

“ ‘For God’s sake, darling, come with me, far from this 
accursed spot. We must not remain here longer. Come.’ 

“Without a remonstrance, acting as one just aroused 
from sleep, she obeyed me, and hurrying along the dark 
passageway, we soon reached her room, the scenes I had 
passed through passing and repassing in rapid review 
through my troubled brain. 

“In the dusk of early morning I left the house, Rachel 
remaining, as I deemed it best that she should do so for a 
few days at least, until I could see what would come of it 
all. 

“I have now told you all, Mr. Treadwell — the story is 
complete; the sequel” — her voice grows weak and wavers 
as she essays to speak — “rests wth God.” 

With a sigh she sinks back in her chair, and silence falls 
upon them all. 


m 


CONFESSION OF LOKKAINE HERSCHEL. 


CHAPTER XXXIL 

‘‘THE CLOUDS DISPELLED.” 

“And he, thinking you guilty, has given himself up to 
shield you and his child from the shame and disgrace.’’ 

The silence is broken by these words from Treadwell. 

The woman faintly bows an affirmative. 

“Even willing to die for you,” and the words of the suf- 
fering man return to him — those written words, accom- 
panied by the silent evidence of despair and a weariness of 
life. 

“If you are my friend, let me die,” and then, in a soft 
whisper, he murmurs as if to himself : 

“Noble heart — noble heart.” 

“You must understand the meaning of my strange 
words that night I called upon you,” says the woman, 
“when I told you I wished to save Henry Allen’s life. They 
had a double meaning. He would surely pay the penalty 
of this supposed crime if the truth was not told, and if it 
was, the shame would kill him.” 

“Yes, yes, I can see it all now. How sad, how unfortu- 
nate,” then, after a moment spent in careful, keen review, 
he says : 

“Although you have supplied the final chapter to the 
story, and I know you have spoken truly, yet there are 
some things as yet unexplained, and these very things, 
simple as they are, would to my mind stand in the way of 
your husband’s release.” 


CONFESSION OF LORBAINE HERSCHEL. 


275 


She arouses herself at his words, a startled look of in- 
quiry in her dark eyes, while the girl rises to her feet and 
gazes anxiously upon him. 

“I do not understand,” begins the suffering woman. 

The detective hastens to reassure her. 

“You may be able to make it all clear,” he says. “In 
your haste you may have forgotten it. Perhaps you do not 
know” — then quickly — “you left the room through the 
door?” 

“Yes.” 

“You did not lock it.” 

The face of the girl turns pale. 

“No,” wonderingly. 

“Yet your daughter found it locked in the morning, or” 
— turning to her — “did you return and lock it?” 

“No, no!” cries the girl. “It was fastened from the in- 
side.” 

“There was the fire escape,” remarks Treadwell. “It 
would have been an easy matter for you to have gained ac- 
cess to the room by that means, locked the door from the 
inside, and then have left by the same means.” 

The fair face flushes, the gray eyes assume a look of quiet 
dignity. 

“If such had been the case, I should have said so, Mr. 
Treadwell,” she says, firmly. “I have not attempted to 
deceive you. The account I gave you the morning of the 
discovery was a truthful one, as far as it went. I only omit- 
ted the circumstance of my going to the room the night 
before and what occurred there. I did that to shield my 
mother. You understand, of course, that I knew nothing 
of the death of Mr. Deveaux — or Unde Ralph — until 
I had entered the room with Mr. Seabrooke in the morn- 
ing, and the awful fact was made known. My mother did 


276 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


not take me into her confidence; I surmised that some- 
thing terrible had happened. I saw the blood upon my 
mother’s hands when we had returned to my room. It 
came from the stained razor which she had held, but sup- 
posing she had in some way inflicted an injury sufficient 
to wound her, I refrained from questioning her, and not 
until the morning had I any suspicion of the truth. 

“When the body was found, and I saw the blood stains 
upon the bed clothing, then, naturally, my mind associated 
circumstances, and I fainted.” 

“You believed your mother guilty of the crime,” cries 
the detective, while the eyes of the woman grew sad and re- 
proachful. 

“Yes,” the girl makes reply; “at first the horror of it all 
overcame me. I had no time to think.” 

“And to shield her you withheld the circumstances upon 
my first examination?” 

“Yes. Can you censure or blame me?” The question 
comes with quiet dignity. 

Treadwell relapses into deep thought — finally replies 
slowly : 

“No — I do not think I really can. You acted as you 
thought for the best — but how came the door locked?” 

“I do not know, unless Mr. Allen — my father — returned, 
and after locking it, took his departure by means of the 
fire escape.” 

The heavy brows of the man knit in thought. 

“Hardly likely,” he mutters, “and then, there is the 
money.” 

“The money?” cries the mother and girl in unison. 

“Yes — why — you remember signing the receipt for some 
for Mr. Deveaux, that same morning?” inquiringly to 
Rachel. 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


277 


“Yes, yes,’^ she replies hastily, “but what of it? What 
has it to do with this?” 

After a moment’s thought the detective tells them of 
the circumstance of the money envelope, watching their 
faces keenly while so doing; but only surprise is depicted 
there, and if he has any new-formed suspicions, they van- 
ish. 

He rises to his feet. 

“This is yet to be explained,” he says quietly. “I will 
say, as well, that the weakest point in your account is the 
fact that you alone saw the ending of Roger Deveaux’s — 
or Ralph Dean’s — life. It lacks corroboration. If I go to 
your husband and inform him of what I know, he, already 
positively convinced of your guilt, will not credit it. For 
years he has suffered upon your account, and really is pos- 
sessed of an unreasonable feeling against you, but it is 
there just the same, and although he has gone to prison in 
your stead, it is probably as much to shield his name from 
disgrace as to protect you from the hand of Justice. 

“Perhaps more so,” interrupts the weeping woman. 
“It was to that desire I attributed his action.” 

“Now, then,” continues the man slowly, as if in thought, 
apparently not heeding her words, “even if I go to him 
and say, ‘You are free, I am convinced you did not commit 
the murder you are willing to suffer for,’ how can it prove 
that he did not do so? Your account? When your rela- 
tionship becomes known, it would not be believed by a 
jury, and either he or you would suffer. Even your daugh- 
ter at first supposed you guilty! Is it not natural to sup- 
pose that a jury would do so? 

“Then the whole story would come out, and while that 
would perhaps free the man, or tend to arouse sympathy, 
it would fasten the suspicion of guilt probably upon you, 
and kill your husband.” 


278 


CONFESSIOJS' OF'LOEKAI^sE IIERSCHEL. 


“Yes, yes, it would — I know it would.” 

“I must have time to think this all over carefully,” re- 
marks Treadwell. “Remember, I am convinced of the 
truth of what you have told me, but it is necessary to have 
the facts so strong and well proven that they will prove un- 
deniable. I wish to keep your secret from the world; have 
pledged you my word I would endeavor to do so, and in 
order to keep my pledge I must look farther.” 

The girl, with a quick, impulsive movement, falls upon 
her knees, and clasping her white hands, her eyes raised in 
supplication, murmurs: 

“Oh, God, throw light upon this mystery. Make it all 
plain. Do not compel us to suffer more, for Chrisf s sake, 
Amen.” 

“I believe he will. Miss,” cries the detective, hastily, im- 
pulsively. “I feel that He will. I must go, but when I re- 
turn I will bring you good news ! My heart tells me I shall 
be successful in explaining that which is yet dark.” 

Taking his hat, he hurriedly leaves the room, and in a 
short time the house, still clutching the packet of manu- 
script containing the confession. He has not put it down 
but one moment during all the long interview, and then 
only when the woman has fainted. 

The pangs of hunger are beginning to make themselves 
known. It is nearly noon, and he has eaten nothing since 
the night before. So, rather unwillingly — he hates to lose 
even the time necessary to satisfy his craving — he enters a 
restaurant and makes his way to a private table, desiring to 
be alone. 

The waiter takes his order, and while waiting for it, the 
detective takes up the Sun, which is lying upon the table 
before him, and absently glances at the front page. 

The first article that attracts his attention is short, but 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


279 


expresses much. It is to the effect that burglars have at- 
tempted to rob the house of a certain prominent citizen 
the night before, and that one of them has been shot, and is 
not expected to live. 

“Poor devil,” mutters the man. “Got it at last. Well, 
it comes to them all in time, either in one way or another.” 

He continues to read in a desultory manner, until his 
meal is brought him, and then attacking it vigorously, he 
soon disposes of the viands. 

Feeling brighter and more refreshed, he is about to go 
when he hears some one enter the adjoining stall; two 
men, he can tell, as they are talking. 

Scarcely knowing why he does so, the detective pauses, 
and remaining quiet, listens. To his ears comes a low 
murmur, embodying the words, “Poor Nick; he got it in 
the neck last night. Unfortunate devil.” 

“Croaked?” sententiously asks the other. 

“No, not yet, but he can’t live long. Do you know Pm 
rather leery that he’ll give away the snap about the blind 
man in Brown’s Hotel when he gets on that he can’t live?” 

The detective starts, and with great difficulty suppresses 
an exclamation. 

“The blind man in Brown’s Hotel.” 

What can he mean? What do these men know of the 
circumstance? In what way are they associated with it? 

Ah, God is answering Rachel’s prayer. 

The voice of the second speaker breaks in upon his med- 
itations. 

“Nix — not so raw,” it says, “some one may git on.” 

“You’re dead right,” came the reply. 

Treadwell leaves the stall and proceeds to the cashier’s 
desk, where he pays the amount due, and then, resolving 
to ascertain, if possible, who the two are whose brief con- 


280 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


versation he has overheard, returns to the stall, and draw- 
ing aside the curtains with a quick, positive motion, enters 
the compartment occupied by the two. 

He wishes to see their faces. His plan is eminently suc- 
cessful, his swift glance, sweeping the disturbed, vexed 
countenances, as the two look up to demand the meaning 
of the intrusion. 

He recognizes them both, and they know him. 

“Treadwell!” they exclaim in unison. 

“Beg pardon,” says the detective, suavely, “I thought 
the stall unoccupied, but seeing that we three old acquaint- 
ances have been brought together so opportunely, per- 
haps you will invite me to dine with you?” 

The two look upon him sullenly. Finally one of them 
says: 

“Oh, that’s all guff. Tread. You don’t want to peck 
with us. You’ve got something in the wind.” 

The detective smiles, facing them, watching them keen- 

ly- 

“Well, what do you suppose it is?” he asks, banteringly. 
“You know I usually get you dead to rights when I start 
in. So you may as well come out plain. What do you 
think I want?” 

“Blamed if I know,” ejaculates the other. “There’s 
nothin’ fresh on either of us.” 

Fixing his eyes steadily upon that of the man before 
him, the detective leans forward and says, in a low, im- 
pulsive tone, “What of the blind man at Brown’s Hotel?” 
Then, without giving him an opportunity to recover from 
the absolute astonishment that his words have caused, con- 
tinues, “and Nick, your pal, who was shot last night?” 

Both men spring to their feet. 

“By heaven, Treadwell, we did not kill him,” cries the 
one who has first spoken. 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


281 


*‘How am I to know you did not?” leading him on. 

'‘We can prove it.” 

“Sit down!” commanded the officer. Then, the two 
obeying him, he says : 

“I know nearly all the facts of this case, boys. I am in 
search of the balance. I don’t propose to get you into 
trouble, unless you force me to. I am dead onto you, and 
you know it, and so I am going to give you an opportunity 
to clear yourselves. First, what doesi Nick know that you 
fear he will confess?” 

“You heard what we said when we came in here?” cries 
the man. 

“Well, what if I did? Come, you had better talk quick, 
for if Nick does know anything in connection with the 
affair, he may die without saying a word, and then you will 
find it much more difficult to establish your proofs.” 

The two exchanges glances, then he who has done all 
the talking, says slowly: 

“Nick knows it all. We don’t know much about it, only 
this: 

“The morning before the dead man was found, the three 
of us were in the express office, and accidentally saw a 
money envelope addressed to Roger Deveaux, Brown’s 
Hotel. It was for twenty-five hundred, and the idea struck 
me that we might just as well have that money, and I 
thought it possible that we might get it. 

“I hang out around on High street, not far from Brown’s 
and have often seen these two men, the dummy and the 
blind fellow. I knew Deveaux was the blind man, and it 
come to me that it wouldn’t be a very hard job to touch 
him for the stuff. Just watchin’ a chance when the other 
was away. 

“So we spotted ’em all that day, and got the lay of their 
room. 


282 


CONFESSION OF LOKRAINE HERSCHEL. 


“There is a fire escape runnin^ from the alley back of the 
house to the top floor, and we found out the two queer pals 
slept in room 47, which opened on the escape, so that 
night we went to the spot and drew straws who would go 
up the escape and do the work, there bein’ no use of the 
three of us takin’ chances, when one man could do it just 
as well. Of course, we could all be near enough to give a 
hand in case of trouble. Nick drew the straw, and went up 
the ladder — we brought a ten-foot one with us to reach 
the bottom of the escape. He was up there a devilish long 
time. We could see him standin’ on the landing at the 
top, and so knew he was all right. After waitin’ over an 
hour, might have been two, we saw him raise the window 
and go into the room. He didn’t stay there long. In about 
five minutes he came out and come down the escape in a 
hurry. 

“ ‘What kept you so long?’ we both said. 

“ ‘A damned tough affair,’ he said back. ‘A fellow has 
just croaked himself up there, an’ we had better git away 
from here quick, or we’re liable to git pinched for murder, 
if we’re found.’ 

“He had the stuff ; found it in the dead man’s ‘grip,’ and 
as we run along the streets he told us all about the whole 
business.” 

“He saw the blind man take his own life?” cries the offi- 
cer. 

“Yes — with a razor. He told us all he saw and heard.” 

“That is enough. I have learned all I wish to know. 
Come with me, and just as quickly as you can. No harm 
shall come to you. I am not going to lock you up” — the 
two showing hesitation. “I never go back on my word, 
boys, and you know it, but we' must get to Nick before he 
dies.” 


CONFESSION OF LOKRAINE HERSCHEL. 


283 


^‘We ain^t had our dinner yet/’ growls the fellow, the 
one who has remained silent throughout the scene, save to 
corroborate his'companion’s words by sundry grunts and 
emphatic expletives. 

“Never mind your dinner,” cries Treadwell, impatiently. 
“If you’ve ordered it. I’ll pay for it, and give you a better 
one after we are through. Come, we must go to Nick. It 
is important to obtain his deposition before he leaves the 
world.” 

In breathlesshaste they hurry from the restaurant, Tread- 
well throwing two dollars upon the cashier’s desk to pay 
for the ordered but uneaten meal, and then, fortunately 
catching a cab, the three are driven to the hospital where 
the wounded burglar has been taken. 

They are in time; the man is not yet dead, but very near 
the shore of eternity. It takes but a few moments to ar- 
range for his dying deposition, and when it is all over, and 
the unfortunate criminal lies dead before him, Daniel 
Treadwell is in possession of evidence that corroborates 
the statement made by Mrs. Herschel, evidence sufficient 
to free the imprisoned, suffering man, and set his mind at 
ease. 

Nick has witnessed the entire affair, has heard every 
word that was spoken, seen every gesture, and, when the 
two women have left the room, he has clambered through 
the window, locked the door to prevent intrusion, and se- 
curing the money, has made a hasty departure. And even 
more. The man, as his breath grows shorter, informs the 
officer where the money has been secreted — they had not 
divided it as yet, and aided by the two men who had been 
instrumental — although unconsciously — in bringing 
about the fortunate end, he secures it, and rewards the 
criminals liberally. 


^84 CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. ' 

With a happy heart, he returns to Barnum’s Hotel, to 
carry the glad tidings that the clouds of night have been 
dispelled, that the sun of a new day of glorious promise 
has appeared upon the horizon. 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


286 


CHAPTER XXXIIL 

SUNSHINE. 

Mrs. Herschel, looking almost ghastly pale, admits him, 
answering his impetuous rap. 

“Well?^’ she faintly murmurs. 

“God has answered your petition,” he says simply, turn- 
ing to Rachel, who is standing near the bed, in an attitude 
of expectancy. 

A flush suffuses her pale face, her eyes turn thankfully 
upward. 

“You have discovered something new?” gladly cries the 
mother. 

“Yes, and a something that puts matters in proper 
shape,” he replies. 

She motions him to a chair, and when they have become 
seated, he quickly tells her all, concluding by saying: 

“If the hand of Providence cannot be plainly seen in all 
this, then I am no judge of the matter at all.” 

The mother slowly nods an affirmative, and then 
thoughtfully asks: 

“And the next step — ” 

“Is to go to your husband, and get him out of his mis- 
erable cell, then to disabuse his mind of the horrible sus- 
picion that is bearing him do*wn to the earth.” 

“Will he be freed at once?” 

“Just as soon as I can get the necessary papers, and un- 


286 


CONFESSION OF LOllEAlNE HEKSCHEL. 


der the circumstances that won’t take long. Come, we 
had better be off at once,” rising. 

The woman hesitates. 

'Ts it best for me to go?” she begins. 

He hastily interrupts her. 

“Absolutely,” he says, firmly. “You need not see him 
first. I will break the news, then Rachel can go to him and 
pave the way, I have the utmost confidence in her ability 
to successfully perform her part. He will not hold out long 
— depend on it.” 

“I pray that it may be as you say,” she murmurs, “but I 
will abide by your judgment, Mr. Treadwell. You, per- 
haps, know best.” 

“Perhaps? No — I am sure L do,” warmly. 

They are soon ready for the street, Treadwell going to 
the office below, to order a carriage, while the necessary 
changes of costume are being made. In a short time they 
are being whirled tp the prison, Treadwell strong and 
hopeful, the mother clasping the hand of her child ner- 
vously, while the girl whispers words of cheering hope in 
her ear. 

****** 

With a sharp click, the bolt shoots back in its socket, 
then, with a rattling of chains and a creaking, rasping 
sounds the door of Henry Allen’s cell opens wide, while 
the turnkey calls out gruffly: 

“You’re wanted below.” 

The dumb man glances inquiringly into the man’s face, 
and then, taking his tablet from his pocket, writes: 

“Who wishes to see me?” 

“Dan Treadwell.” 

The furrowed face lights up, the expressive eyes giving 
evidence of pleasure. 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE IIERSCIIEL. 


287 


Silently he follows the uniformed official along the corri- 
dors, down a flight of iron steps, to the private reception 
room, and then a warm welcome expressed in every ac- 
tion, he finds the detective awaiting his coming. 

A stride on the part of each, and the two men are clasp- 
ing hands. Then the prisoner releasing the hand of the 
other, writes: 

‘T am glad to see you.” 

“And I am glad to be obliged to make you a visit,” re- 
plies Dan, seating himself, an example which is followed 
by the dumb man. 

“Now that we are comfortably fixed, I have a bit of 
news for you,” begins the detective. 

A glance of inquiry from the other. 

“Yes, and decidedly good news, as I look upon it. You 
will probably remember that upon the occasion of your 
visit to me, I registered a vow to save you,” pausing. A 
sad shake of the head. “Don’t think it possible, eh? Well, 
Mr. Allen, I have come to tell you that you will not have 
the pleasure of having your neck stretched.” 

Allen springs to his feet, Treadwell following his exam- 
ple. 

“No,” he hurries on, “it has been discovered that you 
did not kill Roger Deveaux, and so shall not suffer the 
penalty. But wait a minute,” perceiving the wild look of 
anxiety that comes to the eyes of his companion, “don’t 
worry. She is all right. She did not murder him, either.” 
Then placing his hand upon the trembling man’s shoulder, 
he says, earnestly: 

“Sir, I know the full particulars of your whole sad story. 
I know you are not Henry Allen, and that Roger Deveaux 
was your half brother, Ralph Dean. I know you to be 
Lorraine Herschel, and let me tell you, dear sir, there is a 
happier future in store for you.” 


288 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCIIEL. 


Lorraine Herschel shrinks from him, and then, raising 
his eyes to the detective’s face, fixes a look of inquiring 
import upon him. 

‘'Oh, you wish to know how I gained my information. 
You think, perhaps, your wife has told me? No; she tried 
to keep it from me, but, thank God, the facts came to me 
in spite of all. See,” he turns and points to the confession, 
which he has previously arranged upon the table. Her- 
schel devotes one rapid glance upon it, and then, turning 
to his tablet, writes: 

“How did you obtain possession of this?” 

Briefly Treadwell tells him all, pausing and gazing with 
the deepest sympathy upon the grief of the man when he 
learns that his loved companion, his brother, has ended 
his own life — a grief deep, profound and touching, from 
which he arouses himself at last and turns as though to 
leave the apartment. 

“Mr. Herschel,” speaks the detective. 

The sorrowing man halts. 

“There is more to tell.” 

“Let me tell it,” murmurs a soft, sweet voice behind 
them. They turn and behold Rachel — Rachel, who hastens 
to her father’s side and places one shapely arm about his 
neck and draws his face down to the level of her own and 
then kisses him. With a gladsome light shining from out 
his eyes, the father rains kisses upon the upturned lips 
of his daughter. 

Treadwell becomes interested in the fire which is burn- 
ing in the open grate; not so interested, however, that 
he does not hear the maiden say: 

“Forgive her, father! pardon my mother; for she is 
my mother. She brought me into the world, and you, my 
father, love her yet. Yes, in spite of all, I feel you love 


CONFESSION OF LORRAINE HERSCHEL. 


290 


C0XFES610X OF LOKKAIXE UERSCHEL. 


her yet. Forgive her, father. Ah, me! she has suffered, 
too. She has paid the bitter penalty of one rash step.” 
Then so softly and reverently: “Christ forgave even 
those who nailed him upon the cross, father.” 

The detective turns quickly, turns in time to see the wife 
of Lorraine Herschel standing in the opposite door, gaz- 
ing beseechingly upon her husband, who stands clasping 
his child in his arms. He can see the struggle that is rag- 
ing within the man, and then sees him put the girl gently 
aside and open wide his arms, into which the wife throws 
herself with a glad cry. 

The scene is too sacred for him to intrude upon. 

He softly crosses the room and makes his exit unno- 
ticed. 

Upon returning some fifteen minutes later a scene*’of 
happiness meets his vision. The three are sitting together 
on the low divan near the grate, the father and husband 
between the two whom he loves. 

He rises as Treadwell enters and approaches him, the 
wife and child following him. 

“He knows all,” cries the girl. 

“And has forgiven all,” adds the wife. 

Lorraine Herschel has reached the table. He takes up 
the confession and, turning to the grate, casts it upon the 
living coals. 

It burns slowly at first, but finally catches and is soon 
in ashes, then, turning to the wife and child, he clasps them 
in his arms. 


(FINIS.) 


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